LIBRARY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


FANNY, 


"A  fairy  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  in  the  plighted  clouds." 

MILTON. 


FROM   THE    EDITION    OF    1821. 


LIBRARY 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1839,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 


FANNY. 


I. 


FANNY  was  younger  once  than  she  is  now, 
And  prettier  of  course :  I  do  not  mean 

To  say  that  there  are  wrinkles  on  her  brow; 
Yet,  to  be  candid,  she  is  past  eighteen — 

Perhaps  past  twenty — but  the  girl  is  shy 

About  her  age,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
A2 


FANNY. 


II. 


Should  get  myself  in  trouble  by  revealing 
A  secret  of  this  sort ;  I  have  too  long 

Loved  pretty  women  with  a  poet's  feeling, 
And  when  a  boy,  in  day  dream  and  in  song, 

Have  knelt  me  down  and  worshipp'd  them :  alas ! 

They  never  thank'd  me  for't — but  let  that  pass. 


III. 


I've  felt  full  many  a  heart-ache  in  my  day, 
At  the  mere  rustling  of  a  muslin  gown, 

And  caught  some  dreadful  colds,  I  blush  to  say, 
While  shivering  in  the  shade  of  beauty's  frown. 

They  say  her  smiles  are  sunbeams — it  may  be — 

But  never  a  sunbeam  would  she  throw  on  me. 


IV. 


But  Fanny's  is  an  eye  that  you  may  gaze  on 
For  half  an  hour,  without  the  slightest  harm ; 

E'en  when  she  wore  her  smiling  summer  face  on 
There  was  but  little  danger,  and  the  charm 

That  youth  and  wealth  once  gave,  has  bade  farewell. 

Hers  is  a  sad,  sad  tale — 'tis  mine  its  woes  to  tell. 


FANNY. 

V. 

Her  father  kept,  some  fifteen  years  ago, 
A  retail  dry-good  shop  in  Chatham -street, 

And  nursed  his  little  earnings,  sure  though  slow, 
Till,  having  muster'd  wherewithal  to  meet 

The  gaze  of  the  great  world,  he  breathed  the  air 

Of  Pearl-street— and  "set  up"  in  Hanover-square. 


VI. 


Money  is  power,  'tis  said — I  never  tried; 

I'm  but   a  poet — and  bank-notes  to  me 
Are  curiosities,  as  closely  eyed, 

Whene'er  I  get  them,  as  a  stone  would  be, 
Toss'd  from  the  moon  on  Doctor  Mitchill's  table, 
Or  classic  brickbat  from  the  tower  of  Babel. 

VII. 

But  he  I  sing  of  well  has  known  and  felt 
That  money  hath  a  power  and  a  dominion; 

For  when  in  Chatham-street  the  good  man  dwelt, 
No  one  would  give  a  sous  for  his  opinion. 

And  though  his  neighbours  were  extremely  civil, 

Yet,  on  the  whole,  they  thought  him — a  poor  devil, 


8  FANNY. 

VIII. 

A  decent  kind  of  person ;  one  whose  head 

Was  not  of  brains  particularly  full ; 
It  was  not  known  that  he  had  ever  said 

Any  thing  worth  repeating — 'twas  a  dull, 
Good,  honest  man — what  Paulding's  muse  would  call 
A  "  cabbage  head" — but  he  excelled  them  all 


IX. 


In  that  most  noble  of  the  sciences, 

The  art  of  making  money ;  and  he  found 
The  zeal  for  quizzing  him  grew  less  and  less, 
•  As  he  grew  richer ;  till  upon  the  ground 
Of  Pearl-street,  treading  proudly  in  the  might 
And  majesty  of  wealth,  a  sudden  light 


X. 


Flash'd  like  the  midnight  lightning  on  the  eyes 
Of  all  who  knew  him ;  brilliant  traits  of  mind, 

And  genius,  clear  and  countless  as  the  dies 
Upon  the  peacock's  plumage ;  taste  refined, 

Wisdom  and  wit,  were  his — perhaps  much  more. 

'Twas  strange  they  had  not  found  it  out  before. 


FANNY. 


XL 


In  this  quick  transformation,  it  is  true 

That  cash  had  no  small  share ;  but  there  were  still 
Some  other  causes,  which  then  gave  a  new 

Impulse  to  head  and  heart,  and  join'd  to  fill 
His  brain  with  knowledge ;  for  there  first  he  met 
The  editor  of  the  New- York  Gazette, 


XII. 


The  sapient  Mr.  L  *  *  G.     The  world  of  him 
Knows  much,  yet  not  one  half  so  much  as  he 

Knows  of  the  world.     Up  to  its  very  brim 
The  goblet  of  his  mind  is  sparkling  free 

With  lore  and  learning.     Had  proud  Sheba's  queen, 

In  all  her  bloom  and  beauty,  but  have  seen 

XIII. 

This  modern  Solomon,  the  Israelite, 

Earth's  monarch  as  he  was,  had  never  won  her. 
He  would  have  hang'd  himself  for  very  spite, 

And  she,  bless'd  woman,  might  have  had  the  honour 
Of  some  neat  "  paragraphs" — worth  all  the  lays 
That  Judah's  minstrel  warbled  in  her  praise. 


10  FANNY 

XIV. 

Her  star  arose  too  soon ;  but  that  which  sway'd 
TV  ascendant  at  our  merchant's  natal  hour 

Was  bright  with  better  destiny — its  aid 
Led  him  to  pluck  within  the  classic  bower 

Of  bulletins,  the  blossoms  of  true  knowledge ; 

And  L  *  *  G  supplied  the  loss  of  school  and  college. 


XV. 


For  there  he  learn'd  the  news  some  minutes  sooner 
Than  others  could;  and  to  distinguish  well 

The  different  signals,  whether  ship  or  schooner, 
Hoisted  at  Staten  Island ;  and  to  tell 

The  change  of  wind,  and  of  his  neighbour's  fortunes, 

And,  best  of  all — he  there  learn'd  self-importance. 

XVI. 

Nor  were  these  all  the  advantages  derived 
From  change  of  scene ;  for  near  his  domicil, 

HE  of  the  pair  of  polish'd  lamps  then  lived, 
And  in  my  hero's  promenades,  at  will, 

Could  he  behold  them  burning — and  their  flame 

Kindled  within  his  breast  the  love  of  fame, 


FANNY.  11 

XVII. 

And  politics,  and  country ;  the  pure  glow 
Of  patriot  ardour,  and  the  consciousness 

That  talents  such  as  his  might  well  bestow 
A  lustre  on  the  city ;  she  would  bless 

His  name;  and  that  some  service  should  be  done  her, 

He  pledged  "  life,  fortune,  and  his  sacred  honour." ' 

XVIII. 

And  when  the  sounds  of  music  and  of  mirth, 
.  Bursting  from  Fashion's  groups  assembled  there, 
Were  heard,  as  round  their  lone  plebeian  hearth 

Fanny  and  he  were  seated — he  would  dare 
To  whisper  fondly,  that  the  time  might  come 
When  he  and  his  could  give  as  brilliant  routs  at  home. 

XIX. 

And  oft  would  Fanny  near  that  mansion  linger, 
When  the  cold  winter  moon  was  high  in  heaven, 

And  trace  out,  by  the  aid  of  Fancy's  finger, 
Cards  for  some  future  party,  to  be  given 

When  she,  in  turn,  should  be  a  belle,  and  they 

Had  lived  their  little  hour,  and  pass'd  away. 


12  FANNY. 

XX. 

There  are  some  happy  moments  in  this  lone 
And  desolate  world  of  ours,  that  well  repay 

The  toil  of  struggling  through  it,  and  atone 
For  many  a  long,  sad  night  and  weary  day. 

They  come  upon  the  mind  like  some  wild  air 

Of  distant  music,  when  we  know  not  where, 

XXI. 

Or  whence,  the  sounds  are  brought  from,  and  their  power, 
Though  brief,  is  boundless.  That  far,  future  home, 

Oft  dream'd  of,  beckons  near — it's  rose-wreathed  bower, 
And  cloudless  skies  before  us :  we  become 

Changed  on  the  instant — all  gold  leaf  and  gilding : 

This  is,  in  vulgar  phrase,  call'd  "castle  building." 

XXII. 

But  Jhese,  like  sunset  clouds,  fade  soon;  'tis  vain 

To  bid  them  linger  longer,  or  to  ask 
On  what  day  they  intend  to  call  again; 

And,  surely,  'twere  a  philosophic  task, 
Worthy  a  Mitchill,  in  his  hours  of  leisure, 
To  find  some  means  to  summon  them  at  pleasure. 


FANNY.  13 

XXIII. 

There  certainly  are  powers  of  doing  this, 

In  some  degree  at  least — for  instance,  drinking. 

Champagne  will  bathe  the  heart  a  while  in  bliss, 
And  keep  the  head  a  little  time  from  thinking 

Of  cares  or  creditors — the  best  wine  in  town 

You'll  get  from  Lynch — the  cash  must  be  paid  down. 

XXIV. 

But  if  you  are  a  bachelor,  like  me, 

And  spurn  all  chains,  even  though  made  of  roses, 
I'd  recommend  segars — there  is  a  free 

And  happy  spirit,  that,  unseen,  reposes 
On  the  dim  shadowy  clouds  that  hover  o'er  you, 
When  smoking  quietly  with  a  warm  fire  before  you. 

XXV. 

Dear  to  the  exile  is  his  native  land, 

In  memory's  twilight  beauty  seen  afar: 
Dear  to  the  broker  is  a  note  of  hand, 

Collaterally  secured — the  polar  star 
Is  dear  at  midnight  to  the  sailor's  eyes, 
And  dear  are  Bristed's  volumes  at  "  half  price ;" 
B 


14  FANNY. 

XXVI. 

But  dearer  far  to  me  each  fairy  minute 
Spent  in  that  fond  forgetfulness  of  grief; 

There  is  an  airy  web  of  magic  in  it, 
As  in  Othello's  pocket-handkerchief, 

Veiling  the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  sorrow, 

The  gathering  gloom  to-day,  the  thunder  cloud  to-morrow. 

XXVII. 

And  these  are  innocent  thoughts — a  man  may  sit 
Upon  a  bright  throne  of  his  own  creation ; 

Untortured  by  the  ghastly  sprites  that  flit 
Around  the  many,  whose  exalted  station 

Has  been  attained  by  means  'twere  pain  to  hint  on, 

Just  for  the  rhyme's  sake — instance  Mr.  Cl*n*on. 

xxvni. 

He  struggled  hard,  but  not  in  vain,  and  breathes 
The  mountain  air  at  last;  but  there  are  others 

Who  strove,  like  him,  to  win  the  glittering  wreaths 
Of  power,  his  early  partisans  and  brothers, 

That  linger  yet  in  dust  from  whence  they  sprung, 

Unhonour'd  and  unpaid,  though,  luckily,  unhung. 


FANNY.  15 

XXIX. 

'Twas  theirs  to  fill  with  gas  the  huge  balloon 
Of  party ;  and  they  hoped,  when  it  arose, 

To  soar  like  eagles  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 
Above  the  gaping  crowd  of  friends  and  foes. 

Alas !  like  Guille's  car,  it  soar'd  without  them, 

And  left  them  with  a  mob  to  jeer  and  flout  them. 

XXX. 

Though  Fanny's  moonlight  dreams  were  sweet  as  those 
I've  dwelt  so  long  upon — they  were  more  stable; 

Hers  were  not  "castles  in  the  air"  that  rose 
Based  upon  nothing;  for  her  sire  was  able, 

As  well  she  knew,  to  "buy  out"  the  one  half 

Of  Fashion's  glittering  train,  that  nightly  quaff 

XXXI. 

Wine,  wit,  and  wisdom,  at  a  midnight  rout, 
From  dandy  coachmen,  whose  "exquisite"  grin 

And  "ruffian"  lounge  flash  brilliantly  without, 
Down  to  their  brother  dandies  ranged  within, 

Gay  as  the  Brussels  carpeting  they  tread  on, 

And  sapient  as  the  oysters  they  are  fed  on. 


16  FANNY. 

XXXIL 

And  Rumour  (she's  a  famous  liar,  yet 
'Tis  wonderful  how  easy  we  believe  her) 

Had  whisper'd  he  was  rich,  and  all  he  met 

In  Wall-street,  nodded,  smiled, and  "tipp'd  the  beaver;" 

All,  from  Mr.  Gelston,  the  collector, 

Down  to  the  broker,  and  the  bank  director. 

XXXIII. 

A  few  brief  years  pass'd  over,  and  his  rank 
Among  the  worthies  of  that  street  was  fix'd ; 

He  had  become  director  of  a  bank, 
And  six  insurance  offices,  and  mix'd 

Familiarly,  as  one  among  his  peers, 

With  grocers,  dry-good  merchants,  auctioneers, 

XXXIV. 

Brokers  of  all  grades — stock  and  pawn — and  Jews 

Of  all  religions,  who  at  noonday  form, 
On  'Change,  that  brotherhood  the  moral  muse 

Delights  in,  where  the  heart  is  pure  and  warm, 
And  each  exerts  his  intellectual  force 
To  cheat  his  neighbour — legally,  of  course. 


FANNY.  17 

XXXV. 

And  there  he  shone  a  planetary  star, 

Circled  around  by  lesser  orbs,  whose  beams 

From  his  were  borrow'd.     The  simile  is  not  far 
From  truth — for  many  bosom  friends,  it  seems, 

Did  borrow  of  him,  and  sometimes  forget 

To  pay — indeed,  they  have  not  paid  him  yet. 

XXXVI. 

But  these  he  deem'd  as  trifles,  when  each  mouth 
Was  open  in  his  praise,  and  plaudits  rose 

Upon  his  willing  ear,  "  like  the  sweet  south 
Upon  a  bank  of  violets,"  from  those 

Who  knew  his  talents,  virtues,  and  so  forth; 

That  is — knew  how  much  money  he  was  worth. 

XXXVII. 

Alas !  poor  human  nature ;  had  he  been 

But  satisfied  with  this,  his  golden  days 
Their  setting  hour  of  darkness  had  not  seen, 

And  he  might  still  (in  the  mercantile  phrase) 
Be  living  "  in  good  order  and  condition ;" 
But  he  was  ruined  by  that  jade  Ambition, 
B2 


18  FANNY. 

XXXVIII. 

"  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds," 

Whose  spell,  like  whiskey,  your  true  patriot  liquor, 
To  politics  the  lofty  hearts  inclines 

Of  all,  from  Clinton  down  to  the  bill-sticker 
Of  a  ward-meeting.  She  came  slyly  creeping 
To  his  bedside,  where  he  lay  snug  and  sleeping. 

XXXIX. 

Her  brow  was  turban'd  with  a  bucktail  wreath, 
A  broach  of  terrapin  her  bosom  wore, 

Tompkins'  letter  was  just  seen  beneath 

Her  arm,  and  in  her  hand  on  high  she  bore 

A  National  Advocate — Pell's  polite  Review 

Lay  at  her  feet — 'twas  pommell'd  black  and  blue. 

XL. 

She  was  in  fashion's  elegant  undress, 

Muffled  from  throat  to  ankle ;  and  her  hair 

Was  all  "  en  papittotes,"  each  auburn  tress 
Prettily  pinn'd  apart.     You  well  might  swear 

She  was  no  beauty ;  yet,  when  "  made  up,"  ready 

For  visiters,  'twas  quite  another  lady. 


FANNY.  19 


XLI. 

Since  that  wise  pedant,  Johnson,  was  in  fashion, 
Manners  have  changed  as  well  as  moons;  and  he 

Would  fret  himself  once  more  into  a  passion, 

Should  he  return  (which  heaven  forbid !),  and  see, 

How  strangely  from  his  standard  dictionary, 

The  meaning  of  some  words  is  made  to  vary. 

XLII. 


For  instance,  an  undress  at  present  means 
The  wearing  a  pelisse,  a  shawl,  or  so; 

Or  any  thing  you  please,  in  short,  that  screens 
The  face,  and  hides  the  form  from  top  to  toe ; 

Of  power  to  brave  a  quizzing-glass,  or  storm — 

'Tis  worn  in  summer,  when  the  weather's  warm. 

XLIII. 

But  a  full  dress  is  for  a  winter's  night. 

The  most  genteel  is  made  of  "  woven  air ;" 
That  kind  of  classic  cobweb,  soft  and  light, 

Which  Lady  Morgan's  Ida  used  to  wear. 
And  ladies,  this  aerial  manner  dress'd  in, 
Look  Eve-like,  angel-like,  and  interesting. 


20  FANNY. 

XLIV. 

But  Miss  Ambition  was,  as  I  was  saying, 
"  DesliabiUee" — his  bedside  tripping  near, 

And,  gently  on  his  nose  her  fingers  laying, 
She  roar'd  out  Tammany !  in  his  frighted  ear. 

The  potent  word  awoke  him  from  his  nap, 

And  then  she  vanish'd,  whisp'ring  verlum  sap. 

XLV. 

The  last  words  were  beyond  his  comprehension, 
For  he  had  left  off  schooling,  ere  the  Greek 

Or  Latin  classics  claimed  his  mind's  attention : 
Besides,  he  often  had  been  heard  to  speak 

Contemptuously  of  all  that  sort  of  knowledge, 

Taught  so  profoundly  in  Columbia  College. 

XL  VI. 

We  owe  the  ancients  something.     You  have  read 
Their  works,  no  doubt — at  least  in  a  translation; 

Yet  there  was  argument  in  what  he  said, 
I  scorn  equivocation  or  evasion, 

And  own  it  must,  in  candour,  be  confessed, 

They  were  an  ignorant  set  of  men  at  best. 


FANNY.  21 

XLVII. 

'Twas  their  misfortune  to  be  born  too  soon 
By  centuries,  and  in  the  wrong  place  too; 

They  never  saw  a  steamboat,  or  balloon, 
Velocipede,  or  Quarterly  Review  ; 

Or  wore  a  pair  of  Baehr's  black  satin  breeches, 

Or  read  an  Almanac,  or  Clinton's  Speeches. 

XLVIII. 

In  short,  in  every  thing  we  far  outshine  them, — 
Art,  science,  taste,  and  talent;  and  a  stroll 

Through  this  enlighten'd  city  would  refine  them 
More  than  ten  years  hard  study  of  the  whole 

Their  genius  has  produced  of  rich  and  rare — 

God  bless  the  Corporation  and  the  Mayor! 

XLIX. 

In  sculpture,  we've  a  grace  the  Grecian  master, 
Blushing,  had  own'd  his  purest  model  lacks ; 

We've  Mr.  Bogart  in  the  best  of  plaster, 
The  Witch  of  Endor  in  the  best  of  wax, 

Besides  the  head  of  Franklin  on  the  roof 

Of  Mr.  Lang,  both  jest  and  weather  proof. 


22  FANNY. 

L. 

And  on  our  City  Hall  a  Justice  stands ; 

A  neater  form  was  never  made  of  board, 
Holding  majestically  in  her  hands 

A  pair  of  steelyards  and  a  wooden  sword ; 
And  looking  down  with  complaisant  civility — 
Emblem  of  dignity  and  durability. 


LI. 


In  painting,  we  have  Trumbull's  proud  chef  d'aume, 
Blending  in  one  the  funny  and  the  fine  : 

His  "Independence"  will  endure  for  ever, 
And  so  will  Mr.  Allen's  lottery  sign ; 

And  all  that  grace  the  Academy  of  Arts, 

From  Dr.  Hosack's  face  to  Bonaparte's. 

LII. 

In  architecture,  our  unrivall'd  skill 

Cullen's  magnesian  shop  has  loudly  spoken 

To  an  admiring  world ;  and  better  still 
Is  Gautier's  fairy  palace  at  Hoboken. 

In  music,  we've  the  Euterpian  Society, 

And  amateurs,  a  wonderful  variety. 


FANNY.  23 

LIII. 

In  physic,  we  have  Francis  and  M'Neven, 

Famed  for  long  heads,  short  lectures,  and  long  bills; 

And  Quackenboss  and  others,  who  from  heaven 
Were  rain'd  upon  us  in  a  shower  of  pills ; 

They'd  beat  the  deathless  Esculapius  hollow, 

And  make  a  starveling  druggist  of  Apollo. 

LIV. 

And  who,  that  ever  slumber'd  at  the  Forum,    .i>.  ^ 
But  owns  the  first  of  orators  we  claim ; 

Cicero  would  have  bow'd  the  knee  before  'em — 
And  for  law  eloquence,  we've  Doctor  Graham. 

Compared  with  him,  their  Justins  and  Quintillians 

Had  dwindled  into  second-rate  civilians. 


LV. 


For  purity  and  chastity  of  style, 

There's  Pell's  preface,  and  puffs  by  Home  and  Waite. 
For  penetration  deep,  and  learned  toil, 

And  all  that  stamps  an  author  truly  great, 
Have  we  not  Bristed's  ponderous  tomes?  a  treasure 
For  any  man  of  patience  and  of  leisure. 


24  FANNY. 

LVI. 

Oxonian  Bristed !  many  a  foolscap  page 

He,  in  his  time,  hath  written,  and  moreover 

(What  few  will  do  in  this  degenerate  age) 

Hath  read  his  own  works,  as  you  may  discover 

By  counting  his  quotations  from  himself — 

You'll  find  the  books  on  any  auction  shelf. 

LVII. 

I  beg  Great  Britain's  pardon ;  'tis  not  meant 
To  claim  this  Oxford  scholar  as  our  own: 

That  he  was  shipp'd  off  here  to  represent 
Her  literature  among  us,  is  well  known; 

And  none  could  better  fill  the  lofty  station 

Of  Learning's  envoy  from  the  British  nation. 

LVIIL 

We  fondly  hope  that  he  will  be  respected 
At  home,  and  soon  obtain  a  place  or  pension. 

We  should  regret  to  see  him  live  neglected, 

Like  Fearon,  Ashe,  and  others  we  could  mention; 

Who  paid  us  friendly  visits  to  abuse 

Our  country,  and  find  food  for  the  reviews. 


FANNY.  25 

LIX. 

But  to  return.— The  Heliconian  waters 

Are  sparkling  in  their  native  fount  no  more, 

And  after  years  of  wandering,  the  nine  daughters 
Of  poetry  have  found  upon  our  shore 

A  happier  home,  and  on  their  sacred  shrines 

Glow  in  immortal  ink,  the  polish'd  lines 


LX. 


Of  Woodworth,  Doctor  Farmer,  Moses  Scott- 
Names  hallow'd  by  their  reader's  sweetest  smile; 

And  who  that  reads  at  all  has  read  them  not? 
"  That  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle," 

Homer,  was  well  enough;  but  would  he  ever 

Have  written,  think  ye,  the  Backwoodsman?  never. 

LXI. 

Alas!  for  Paulding — I  regret  to  see 

In  such  a  stanza  one  whose  giant  powers, 

Seen  in  their  native  element,  will  be 

Known  to  a  future  age,  the  pride  of  ours. 

There  is  none  breathing  who  can  better  wield 

The  battle-axe  of  satire.     On  its  field 

C 


26  FANNY. 

LXIL 

The  wreath  he  fought  for  he  has  bravely  won, 
Long  be  its  laurel  green  around  his  brow! 

It  is  too  true,  I'm  somewhat  fond  of  fun 
And  jesting ;  but  for  once  I'm  serious  now. 

Why  is  he  sipping  weak  Castalian  dews? 

The  muse  has  damn'd  him — let  him  damn  the  muse. 

LXIII. 

But  to  return  once  more:  the  ancients  fought 

Some  tolerable  battles.     Marathon 
Is  still  a  theme  for  high  and  holy  thought, 

And  many  a  poet's  lay.     We  linger  on 
The  page  that  tells  us  of  the  brave  and  free, 
And  reverence  thy  name,  unmatch'd  Thermopylae. 

LXIV. 

And  there  were  spirited  troops  in  other  days — 
The  Roman  legion  and  the  Spartan  band, 

And  Swartwout's  gallant  corps,  the  Iron  Grays — 
Soldiers  who  met  their  foemen  hand  to  hand, 

Or  swore,  at  least,  to  meet  them  undismay'd  ; 

Yet  what  were  these  to  General  Laight's  brigade 


FANNY.  27 

LXV. 

Of  veterans  ?  nursed  in  that  Free  School  of  glory, 
The  New- York  State  Militia.     From  Bellevue, 

E'en  to  the  Battery  flagstaff,  the  proud  story 
Of  their  manoauvres  at  the  last  review 

Has  rang ;  and  Clinton's  "  order"  told  afar 

He  never  led  a  better  corps  to  war. 

LXVI. 

What,  Egypt,  was  thy  magic,  to  the  tricks 

Of  Mr.  Charles,  Judge  Spencer,  or  Van  Buren? 

The  first  with  cards,  the  last  in  politics, 

A  conjuror's  fame  for  years  have  been  securing. 

And  who  would  now  the  Athenian  dramas  read 

When  he  can  get  "  Wall-street,"  by  Mr.  Mead. 

LXVII. 

I  might  say  much  about  our  letter'd  men, 

Those  "grave  and  reverend  seigniors,"  who  compose 

Our  learn'd  societies — but  here  my  pen 

Stops  short;  for  they  themselves,  the  rumour  goes, 

The  exclusive  privilege  by  patent  claim, 

Of  trumpeting  (as  the  phrase  is)  their  own  fame. 


28  FANNY. 

LXVIII. 

And,  therefore,  I  am  silent.     It  remains 
To  bless  the  hour  the  Corporation  took  it 

Into  their  heads  to  give  the  rich  in  brains, 
The  worn-out  mansion  of  the  poor  in  pocket, 

Once  "  the  old  almshouse,"  now  a  school  of  wisdom, 

Sacred  to  Scudder's  shells  and  Dr.  Griscom. 

LXIX. 

But  whither  am  I  wandering?     The  esteem 

I  bear  "  this  fair  city  of  the  heart," 
To  me  a  dear  enthusiastic  theme, 

Has  forced  me,  all  unconsciously,  to  part 
Too  long  from  him,  the  hero  of  my  story. 
Where  was  he  ? — waking  from  his  dream  of  glory. 

LXX. 

And  she,  the  lady  of  his  dream,  had  fled, 

And  left  him  somewhat  puzzled  and  confused. 

He  understood,  however,  half  she  said ; 

And  that  is  quite  as  much  as  we  are  used 

To  comprehend,  or  fancy  worth  repeating, 

In  speeches  heard  at  any  public  meeting. 


FANNY.  29 

LXXI. 

And  the  next  evening  found  him  at  the  Hall ; 

There  he  was  welcomed  by  the  cordial  hand, 
And  met  the  warm  and  friendly  grasp  of  all 

Who  take,  like  watchmen,  there,  their  nightly  stand, 
A  ring,  as  in  a  boxing  match,  procuring, 
To  bet  on  Clinton,  Tompkins,  or  Van  Buren. 

LXXII. 

'Twas  a  propitious  moment ;  for  a  while 
The  waves  of  party  were  at  rest.     Upon. 

Each  complacent  brow  was  gay  good  humour's  smile; 
And  there  was  much  of  wit,  and  jest,  and  pun, 

And  high  amid  the  circle,  in  great  glee, 

Sat  Croaker's  old  acquaintance,  John  Targee. 

LXXIII. 

His  jokes  excelled  the  rest,  and  oft  he  sang 

Songs,  patriotic,  as  in  duty  bound. 
He  had  a  little  of  the  "  nasal  twang 

Heard  at  conventicle ;"  but  yet  you  found 
In  him  a  dash  of  purity  and  brightness, 
That  spoke  the  man  of  taste  and  of  politeness. 
C2 


30  FANNY. 

LXXIV. 

For  he  had  been,  it  seems,  the  bosom  friend 
Of  England's  prettiest  bard,  Anacreon  Moore. 

They  met  when  he,  the  bard,  came  here  to  lend 
His  mirth  and  music  to  this  favourite  shore ; 

For,  as  the  proverb  saith,  "  birds  of  a  feather 

Instinctively  will  flock  and  fly  together." 

LXXV. 

The  winds  that  wave  thy  cedar  boughs  are  breathing, 
"Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp!"  that  poet's  name; 

And  the  spray-showers  their  noonday  halos  wreathing 
Around  "Cohoes,"  are  brighten'd  by  his  fame. 

And  bright  its  sunbeam  o'er  St.  Lawrence  smiles, 

Her  million  lilies,  and  her  thousand  isles. 

LXXVI. 

We  hear  his  music  in  her  oarsmen's  lay, 

And  where  her  church-bells  "  toll  the  evening  chime ;" 
Yet  when  to  him  the  grateful  heart  would  pay 

Its  homage,  now,  and  in  all  coming  time, 
Up  springs  a  doubtful  question  whether  we 
Owe  it  to  Tara's  minstrel  or  Targee. 


FANNY.  31 

LXXVII. 

Together  oft  they  wander'd — many  a  spot 
Now  consecrated,  as  the  minstrel's  theme, 

By  words  of  beauty  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 

Their  mutual  feet  have  trod ;  and  when  the  stream 

Of  thought  and  feeling  flow'd  in  mutual  speech, 

'Twere  vain  to  tell  how  much  each  taught  to  each. 

LXXVIII. 

But,  from  the  following  song,  it  would  appear 

That  he  of  Erin  from  the  sachem  took 
The  model  of  his  "  Bower  of  Bendemeer," 

One  of  the  sweetest  airs  in  Lalla  Rookh ; 
'Tis  to  be  hoped  that  in  his  next  edition, 
This,  the  original,  will  find  admission. 


32  FANNY. 


SONG. 

There's  a  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall, 

And  the  bucktails  are  swigging  it  all  the  night  long; 

In  the  time  of  my  boyhood  'twas  pleasant  to  call 
For  a  seat  and  segar,  mid  the  jovial  throng. 

That  beer  and  those  bucktails  I  never  forget; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  and  unnoticed  by  all, 
I  think,  is  the  porter  cask  foaming  there  yet? 

Are  the  bucktails  still  swigging  at  Tammany  Hall? 

No!  the  porter  was  out  long  before  it  was  stale, 
But  some  blossoms  on  many  a  nose  brightly  shone; 

And  the  speeches  inspired  by  the  fumes  of  the  ale, 
Had  the  fragrance  of  porter  when  porter  was  gone. 

How  much  Cozzens  will  draw  of  such  beer  ere  he  dies, 
Is  a  question  of  moment  to  me  and  to  all ; 

For  still  dear  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall. 


FANNY.  33 


SONG. 

There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  night  long, 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  'twas  like  a  sweet  dream 
To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 

That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget ; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 
I  think,  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet? 

Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bendemeer? 

No  !  the  roses  soon  wither'd  that  hung  o'er  the  wave, 
But   some   blossoms  were   gather'd  while   freshly  they 
shone ; 

And  a  dew  was  distill'd  from  their  flowers,  that  gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was  gone. 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight  ere  it  dies, 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year ; 

Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Bendemeer. 


34  FANNY. 

LXXIX. 

For  many  months  my  hero  ne'er  neglected 
To  take  his  ramble  there,  and  soon  found  out, 

In  much  less  time  than  one  could  have  expected, 
What  'twas  they  all  were  quarrelling  about. 

He  learn'd  the  party  countersigns  by  rote, 

And  when  to  clap  his  hands,  and  how  to  vote. 

LXXX. 

He  learn'd  that  Clinton  became  Governor 

Somehow  by  chance,  when  we  were  all  asleep; 

That  he  had  neither  sense,  nor  talent,  nor 
Any  good  quality,  and  would  not  keep 

His  place  an  hour  after  the  next  election — 

So  powerful  was  the  voice  of  disaffection. 

LXXXI. 

That  he  was  a  mere  puppet  made  to  play 

A  thousand  tricks,  while  Spencer  touch'd  the  springs — 

Spencer,  the  mighty  Warwick  of  his  day, 
"  That  setter  up,  and  puller  down  of  kings," 

Aided  by  Miller,  Pell,  and  Doctor  Graham, 

And  other  men  of  equal  worth  and  fame. 


FANNY.  35 

LXXXII. 

And  that  he'd  set  the  people  at  defiance, 

By  placing  knaves  and  fools  in  public  stations ; 

And  that  his  works  in  literature  and  science 
Were  but  a  schoolboy's  web  of  misquotations ; 

And  that  he'd  quoted  from  the  devil  even — 

"Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven." 

LXXXIII. 

To  these  authentic  facts  each  bucktail  swore ; 

But  Clinton's  friends  averr'd,  in  contradiction, 
They  were  but  fables,  told  by  Mr.  Noah, 

Who  had  a  privilege  to  deal  in  fiction, 
Because  he'd  written  travels,  and  a  melo- 
Drama;  and  was,  withal,  a  pleasant  fellow. 

LXXXIV. 

And  they  declared  that  Tompkins  was  no  better 
Than  he  should  be ;  that  he  had  borrow'd  money, 

And  paid  it — not  in  cash — but  with  a  letter ; 

And  though  some  trifling  service  he  had  done,  he 

Still  wanted  spirit,  energy,  and  fire ; 

And  was  disliked  by— Mr.  M'Intyre. 


36  FANNY. 

LXXXV. 

In  short,  each  one  with  whom  in  conversation 
He  join'd,  contrived  to  give  him  different  views 

Of  men  and  measures ;  and  the  information 
Which  he  obtain'd,  but  aided  to  confuse 

His  brain.     At  best,  'twas  never  very  clear; 

And  now  'twas  turn'd  with  politics  and  beer. 

LXXXVI. 

And  he  was  puff'd,  and  flatter'd,  and  caress'd 
By  all,  till  he  sincerely  thought  that  nature 

Had  form'd  him  for  an  alderman  at  least — 
Perhaps,  a  member  of  the  legislature ; 

And  that  he  had  the  talents,  ten  times  over, 

Of  H*n*y  M**gs,  or  P*t*r  H.  W*nd*ver. 

LXXXVII. 

The  man  was  mad,  'tis  plain,  and  merits  pity, 
Or  he  had  never  dared,  in  such  a  tone, 

To  speak  of  two  great  persons,  whom  the  city, 
With  pride  and  pleasure,  points  to  as  her  own. 

Men,  wise  in  council,  brilliant  in  debate, 

"  The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state." 


FANNY.  37 

LXXXVIII. 

The  one — for  a  pure  style  and  classic  manner, 

Is — Mr.  Sachem  Mooney  far  before. 
The  other,  in  his  speech  about  the  banner, 

Spell-bound  his  audience  until  they  swore 
That  such  a  speech  was  never  heard  till  then, 
And  never  would  be — till  he  spoke  again. 

LXXXIX. 

Though  'twas  presumptuous  in  this  friend  of  ours 
To  think  of  rivalling  these,  I  must  allow 

That  still  the  man  had  talents ;  and  the  powers 
Of  his  capacious  intellect  were  now 

Improved  by  foreign  travel,  and  by  reading, 

And  at  the  Hall  he'd  learn'd,  of  course,  good  breeding. 


XC. 


He  had  read  the  newspapers  with  great  attention*. 

Advertisements  and  all;  and  Riley's  book 
Of  travels — valued  for  its  rich  invention ; 

And  Day  and  Turner's  Price  Current ;  and  took 
The  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews; 
And  also  Colonel  Pell's;  and,  to  amuse 
D 


.'38  FANNY. 

XCI. 

His  leisure  hours  with  classic  tale  and  story, 
Longworth's  Directory,  and  Mead's  Wall-street, 

And  Mr.  Delaplaine's  Repository; 

And  Mitchill's  scientific  works  complete, 

With  other  standard  books  of  modern  days, 

Lay  on  his  table,  cover'd  with  green  baize. 

XCII. 

His  travels  had  extended  to  Bath  races ; 

And  Bloomingdale  and  Bergen  he  had  seen, 
And  Harlaem  Heights ;  and  many  other  places, 

By  sea  and  land,  had  visited;  and  been, 
In  a  steamboat  of  the  Vice  President's, 
To  Staten-Island  once — for  fifty  cents. 

XCIII. 

And  he  had  dined,  by  special  invitation, 
On  turtle,  with  "the  party"  at  Hoboken ; 

And  thank'd  them  for  his  card  in  an  oration, 
Declared  to  be  the  shortest  ever  spoken. 

And  he  had  stroll'd  one  day  o'er  Weehawk  hill: 

A  day  worth  all  the  rest — he  recollects  it  still. 


FANNY.  39 

XCIV. 

Weehawken !     In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet, 

All  we  adore  of  nature  in  her  wild 
And  frolic  hour  of  infancy,  is  met ; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smiled 
Upon  a  lovelier  scene,  than  the  full  eye 
Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  high 

xcv. 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes,  he  climbs 

O'er  crags,  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 

And  knows  that  sense  of  danger  which  sublimes 
The  breathless  moment — when  his  daring  step 

Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 

The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear, 

XCVI. 

Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom, 

And  clings  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  force, 

As  the  heart  clings  to  life ;  and  when  resume 
The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course, 

There  lingers  a  deep  feeling — like  the  moan 

Of  wearied  ocean,  when  the  storm  is  gone. 


40  FANNY. 

XCVII. 

In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 

Ocean,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  burst  before  him ; 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  summer's  sky  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him — 

The  city  bright  below ;  and  far  away, 

Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay. 

XCVIII. 

Tall  spire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  battlement, 
And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air; 

And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 
Green  isle,  and  circling  shore,  are  blended  there 

In  wild  reality.     When  life  is  old, 

And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 

XCIX. 

Its  memory  of  this ;  nor  lives  their  one 

Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood's  days 
Of  happiness  were  pass'd  beneath  that  sun, 

That  in  his  manhood's  prime  can  calmly  gaze 
Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 
Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 


FANNY.  41 


C. 


"This  may  be  poetry,  for  aught  I  know," 

Said  an  old,  worthy  friend  of  mine,  while  leaning 

Over  my  shoulder  as  I  wrote,  "although 
I  can't  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning. 

For  my  part,  I  have  long  been  a  petitioner 

To  Mr.  John  M'Comb,  the  street-commissioner, 


CI. 


"That  he  would  think  of  Weehawk,  and  would  lay  it 
Handsomely  out  in  avenue  and  square  ; 

Then  tax  the  land,  and  make  its  owners  pay  it 
(As  is  the  usual  plan  pursued  elsewhere); 

Blow   up  the    rocks,  and  sell  the  wood  for  fuel — 

'T would  save  us  many  a  dollar,  and  a  duel." 


CII. 


The  devil  take  you  and  John  M'Comb,  said  I; 

Lang,  in  its  praise,  has  penn'd  one  paragraph, 
And  promised  me  another.     I  defy, 

With  such  assistance,  yours  and  the  world's  laugh ; 
And  half  believe  that  Paulding,  on  this  theme, 
Might  be  a  poet — strange  as  it  may  seem. 
D2 


42  FANNY. 

cm. 

For  even  our  traveller  felt,  when  home  returning 
From  that  day's  tour,  as  on  the  deck  he  stood, 

The  fire  of  poetry  within  him  burning ; 
"Albeit  unused  to  the  rhyming  mood;" 

And  with  a  pencil  on  his  knee  he  wrote 

The  following  flaming  lines 

TO  THE  HORSEBOAT. 


Away — o'er  the  wave  to  the  home  we  are  seeking, 
Bark  of  my  hope !  ere  the  evening  be  gone ; 

There's  a  wild,  wild  note  in  the  curlew's  shrieking; 
There's  a  whisper  of  death  in  the  wind's  low  moan. 


Though  blue  and  bright  are  the  heavens  above  me, 
And  the  stars  are  asleep  on  the  quiet  sea; 

And  hearts  I  love,  and  hearts  that  love  me, 
Are  beating  beside  me  merrily, 


FANNY. 


3 


Yet,  far  in  the  west,  where  the  day's  faded  roses, 
Touch'd  by  the  moonbeam,  are  withering  fast ; 

Where  the  half-seen  spirit  of  twilight  reposes, 
Hymning  the  dirge  of  the  hours  that  are  past, 


There,  where  the  ocean-wave  sparkles  at  meeting 
(As  sunset  dreams  tell  us)  the  kiss  of  the  sky, 
On  his  dim,  dark  cloud  is  the  infant  storm  sitting, 
.  And  beneath  the  horizon  his  lightnings  are  nigh. 


Another  hour — and  the  death-word  is  given, 
Another  hour — and  his  lightnings  are  here  ; 

Speed !  speed  thee,  my  bark ;  ere  the  breeze  of  even 
Is  lost  in  the  tempest,  our  home  will  be  near. 

6 

Then  away  o'er  the  wave,  while  thy  pennant  is  streaming 
In  the  shadowy  light,  like  a  shooting  star; 

Be  swift  as  the  thought  of  the  wanderer,  dreaming, 
In  a  stranger  land,  of   his  fireside  afar. 


44  FANNY. 


And  while  memory  lingers  I'll  fondly  believe  thee 
A  being  with  life  and  its  best  feelings  warm; 

And  freely  the  wild  song  of  gratitude  weave  thee, 
Bless'd  spirit !  that  bore  me  and  mine  from  the  storm. 


CIV. 

But  where  is  Fanny?    She  has  long  been  thrown 
Where  cheeks  and  roses  wither — in  the  shade. 

The  age  of  chivalry,  you  know,  is  gone ; 
And  although,  as  I  once  before  have  said, 

I  love  a  pretty  face  to  adoration, 

Yet,  still,  I  must  preserve  my  reputation, 

CV. 

As  a  true  dandy  of  the  modern  schools. 

One  hates  to  be  oldfashion'd ;  it  would  be 
A  violation  of  the  latest  rules, 

To  treat  the  sex  with  too  much  courtesy. 
'Tis  not  to  worship  beauty,  as  she  glows 
In  all  her  diamond  lustre,  that  the  beaux 


FANNY.  45 

CVI. 

Of  these  enlighten'd  days  at  evening  crowd, 
Where  fashion  welcomes  in  her  rooms  of  light, 

That  "  dignified  obedience  ;   that  proud 

Submission,"  which,  in  times  of  yore,  the  knight 

Gave  to  his  "  ladye-love,"  is  now  a  scandal, 

And  practised  only  by  your  Goth  or  Vandal. 

CVII. 

To  lounge  in  graceful  attitudes— be  stared 
Upon,  the  while;  by  every  fair  one's  eye, 

And  stare  one's  self,  in  turn;  to  be  prepared 
To  dart  upon  the  trays,  as  swiftly  by 

The  dexterous  Simon  bears  them,  and  to  take 

One's  share,  at  least,  of  coffee,  cream,  and  cake, 

CVIII. 

Is  now  to  be  "the  ton."  The  pouting  lip, 
And  sad,  upbraiding  eye  of  the  poor  girl, 

Who  hardly  of  joy's  cup  one  drop  can  sip, 
Ere  in  the  wild  confusion,  and  the  whirl, 

And  tumult  of  the  hour,  its  bubbles  vanish, 

Must  now  be  disregarded.     One  must  banish 


46  FANNY. 

CIX. 

Those  antiquated  feelings,  that  belong 
To  feudal  manners  and  a  barbarous  age. 

Time  was — when  woman  "pour'd  her  soul"  in  song, 
That  all  was  hush'd  around.     'Tis  now  "the  rage" 

To  deem  a  song,  like  bugle-tones  in  battle, 

A  signal  note,  that  bids  each  tongue's  artillery  rattle. 


CX. 


And,  therefore,  I  have  made  Miss  Fanny  wait 
My  leisure.     She  had  changed,  as  you  will  see, 

Much  as  her  worthy  sire,  and  made  as  great 
Proficiency  in  taste  and  high  ideas. 

The  careless  smile  of  other  days  was  gone, 

And  every  gesture  spoke  "  (fen  dira-f  on?" 

CXI. 

She  long  had  known  that  in  her  father's  coffers, 
And  also  to  his  credit  in  the  banks, 

There  was  some  cash ;  and  therefore  all  the  offers 
Made  her,  by  gentlemen  of  the  middle  ranks, 

Of  heart  and  hand,  had  spurn'd,  as  far  beneath 

One  whose  high  destiny  it  was  to  breathe, 


FANNY.  47 

CXII. 

Ere  long,  the  air  of  Broadway  or  Park  Place, 

And  reign  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land; 
Display  in  the  gay  dance  her  form  of  grace, 

Or  touch  with  rounded  arm  and  gloveless  hand, 
Harp  or  piano. — Madame  Catilani 
Forgot  a  while,  and  every  eye  on  Fanny. 

CXIII. 

And  in  anticipation  of  that  hour, 

Her  star  of  hope — her  paradise  of  thought, 

She'd  had  as  many  masters  as  the  power 
Of  riches  could  bestow ;  and  had  been  taught 

The  thousand  nameless  graces  that  adorn 

The  daughters  of  the  wealthy  and  high  born. 

CXIV. 

She  had  been  noticed  at  some  public  places 
(The  Battery,  and  the  balls  of  Mr.  Whale), 

For  hers  was  one  of  those  attractive  faces, 
That  when  you  gaze  upon  them,  never  fail 

To  bid  you  look  again;  there  was  a  beam, 

A.  lustre  in  her  eye,  that  oft  would  seem 


48  FANNY. 

CXV. 

A  little  like  effrontery;  and  yet 

The  lady  meant  no  harm ;  her  only  aim 

Was  but  to  be  admired  by  all  she  met, 

And  the  free  homage  of  the  heart  to  claim ; 

And  if  she  show'd  too  plainly  this  intention, 

Others  have  done  the  same — 'twas  not  of  her  invention, 

CXVI. 

She  shone  at  every  concert;  where  are  bought 
Tickets,  by  all  who  wish  them,  for  a  dollar ; 

She  patronised  the  Theatre,  and  thought 

That  Wallack  look'd  extremely  well  in  Holla; 

She  fell  in  love,  as  all  the  ladies  do, 

With  Mr.  Simpson — talked  as  loudly,  too, 

CXVII. 

As  any  beauty  of  the  highest  grade, 

To  the  gay  circle  in  the  box  beside  her ; 

And  when  the  pit — half  vex'd  and  half  afraid, 
With  looks  of  smother'd  indignation  eyed  her, 

She  calmly  met  their  gaze,  and  stood  before  'em, 

Smiling  at  vulgar  taste  and  mock  decorum. 


FANNY.  49 

CXVIII. 

And  though  by  no  means  a  ~bas  bleu,  she  had 
For  literature  a  most  becoming  passion  ; 

Had  skimm'd  the  latest  novels,  good  and  bad, 

And  read  the  Croakers,  when  they  were  in  fashion ; 

And  Doctor  Chalmers'  sermons,  of  a  Sunday  ; 

And  Woodworth's  Cabinet,  and  the  new  Salmagundi. 

CXIX. 

She  was  among  the  first  and  warmest  patrons 

Of  Griscom's  conversaziones,  where 
In  rainbow  groups,  our  bright-eye'd   maids  and  matrons, 

On  science  bent,  assemble;  to  prepare 
Themselves  for  acting  well,  in  life,  their  part 
As  wives  and  mothers.     There  she  learn'd  by  heart 

cxx. 

Words,  to  the  witches  in  Macbeth  unknown. 

Hydraulics,  hydrostatics,  and  pneumatics. 
Dioptrics,  optics,  Catoptrics,  carbon, 

Chlorine,  and  iodine,  and  aerostatics; 
Also, — why  frogs,  for  want  of  air,  expire ; 
And  how  to  set  the  Tappan  sea  on  fire! 
E 


50  FANNY. 

CXXI. 

In  all  the  modern  languages  she  was 

Exceedingly  well  versed ;  and  had  devoted, 

To  their  attainment,  far  more  time  than  has, 
By  the  best  teachers  lately,  been  allotted; 

For  she  had  taken  lessons,  twice  a  week, 

For  a  full  month  in  each ;  and  she  could  speak 

CXXII. 

French  and  Italian,  equally  as  well 

As  Chinese,  Portuguese,  or  German ;  and, 

What  is  still  more  surprising,  she  could  spell 
Most  of  our  longest  English  words  off  hand ; 

Was  quite  familiar  in  Low  Dutch  and  Spanish, 

And  thought  of  studying  modern  Greek  and  Danish. 

CXXIII. 

She  sang  divinely :  and  in  "  Love's  young  dream," 
And  "Fanny  dearest,"  and  "The  soldier's  bride;" 

And  every  song,  whose  dear  delightful  theme, 
Is  "  Love,  still  love,"  had  oft  till  midnight  tried 

Her  finest,  loftiest  "  pigeon- wings"  of  sound, 

Waking  the  very  watchmen  far  around. 


FANNY.  51 


CXXIV. 

For  her  pure  taste  in  dress,  I  can  appeal  to 
Madame  Bouquet,  and  Monsieur  Pardessus; 

She  was,  in  short,  a  woman  you  might'  kneel  to, 
If  kneeling  were  in  fashion ;  or  if  you 

Were  wearied  of  your  duns  and  single  life, 

And  wanted  a  few  thousands  and  a  wife. 

1819. 

cxxv. 


CXXVI. 

"There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night;" 

Broadway  was  throng'd  with  coaches,  and  within 

A  mansion  of  the  best  of  brick,  the  bright 
And  eloquent  eyes  of  beauty  bade  begin 

The  dance  ;  and  music's  tones  swell'd  wild  and  high, 

And  hearts  and  heels  kept  tune  in  tremulous  ecstasy. 


52  FANNY. 

CXXVII. 

For  many  a  week,  the  note  of  preparation 
Had  sounded  through  all  circles  far  and  near; 

And  some  five  hundred  cards  of  invitation 
Bade  .beau  and  belle  in  full  costume  appear ; 

There  was  a  most  magnificent  variety, 

All  quite  select,  and  of  the  first  society. 

CXXVIII. 

That  is  to  say — the  rich  and  the  well-bred, 
The  arbiters  of  fashion  and  gentility, 

In  different  grades  of  splendour,  from  the  head 
Down  to  the  very  toe  of  our  nobility : 

Ladies,  remarkable  for  handsome  eyes 

Or  handsome  fortunes — learned  men,  and  wise : 

CXXJX. 

Statesmen,  and  officers  of  the  militia — 
In  short,  the  "first  society" — a  phrase, 

Which  you  may  understand  as  best  may  fit  you, 
Besides  the  blackest  fiddlers  of  those  days, 

Placed  like  their  sire,  Timotheus,  on  high, 

With  horsehair  fiddle-bows  and  teeth  of  ivory. 


FANNY.  53 

CXXX/ 

The  carpets  were  roll'd  up  the  day  before, 

And,  with  a  breath,  two  rooms  became  but  one, 

Like  man  and  wife — and,  on  the  polish'd  floor, 
Chalk  in  the  artists'  plastic  hand  had  done 

All  that  chalk  could  do — in  young  Eden's  bowers 

They  seemed  to  tread,  and  their  feet  press'd  on  flowers. 

CXXXI. 

And  when  the  thousand  lights  of  spermaceti 

Stream'd  like  a  shower  of  sunbeams — and  free  tresses 

Wild  as  the  heads  that  waved  them — and  a  pretty 
Collection  of  the  latest  Paris  dresses 

Wander'd  about  the  rooms  like  things  divine, 

It  was,  as  I  was  told,  extremely  fine. 

CXXXII. 

The  love  of  fun,  fine  faces,  and  good  eating, 

Brought  many  who  were  tired  of  self  and  home ; 

And  some  were  there  in  the  'high  hope  of  meeting 
The  lady  of  their  bosom's  love — and  some 

To  study  that  deep  science,  how  to  please, 

And  manners  in  high  life,  and  high-soul'd  courtesies. 
E2 


54  FANNY. 

CXXXIII. 

And  he,  the  hero  of  the  night,  was  there, 
In  breeches  of  light  drab,  and  coat  of  blue. 

Taste  was  conspicuous  in  his  powder'd  hair, 
And  in  his  frequent  jeux  de  mots,  that  drew 

Peals  of  applauses  from  the  listeners  round, 

Who  were  delighted — as  in  duty  bound. 

CXXXIV. 

'Twas  Fanny's  father — Fanny  near  him  stood, 
Her  power,  resistless — and  her  wish,  command ; 

And  Hope's  young  promises  were  all  made  good ; 
"She  reign'd  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land;" 

Her  dream  of  infancy  a  dream  no  more, 

And  then  how  beautiful  the  dress  she  wore ! 

XXXV. 

Ambition  with  the  sire  had  kept  her  word. 

He  had  the  rose,  no  matter  for  its  thorn, 
And  he  seem'd  happy  as  a  summer  bird, 

Careering  on  wet  wing  to  meet  the  morn. 
Some  said  there  was  a  cloud  upon  his  brow; 
It  might  be — but  we'll  not  discuss  that  now. 


FANNY.  55 

CXXXVI. 

I  left  him  making  rhymes  while  crossing  o'er 

The  broad  and  perilous  wave  of  the  North  River. 

He  bade  adieu,  when  safely  on  the  shore, 
To  poetry — and,  as  he  thought,  for  ever. 

That  night  his  dream  (if  after  deeds  make  known 

Our  plans  in  sleep)  was  an  enchanting  one. 

CXXXVII. 

He  woke,  in  strength,  like  Samson  from  his  slumber, 
And  walk'd  Broadway,  enraptured  the  next  day; 

Purchased  a  house  there — I've  forgot  the  number — 
And  sign'd  a  mortgage  and  a  bond,  for  pay. 

Gave,  in  the  slang  phrase,  Pearl-street  the  go-by, 

And  cut,  for  several  months,  St.  Tammany. 

CXXXVIII. 

Bond,  mortgage,  title-deeds,  and  all  completed, 
He  bought  a  coach  and  half  a  dozen  horses 

(The  bill's  at  Lawrence's — not  yet  receipted — 
You'll  find  the  amount  upon  his  list  of  losses), 

Then  fill'd  his  rooms  with  servants,  and  whatever 

Is  necessary  for  a  "genteel  liver." 


56  FANNY. 

CXXXIX. 

This  last  removal  fix'd  him :  every  stain 

Was  blotted  from  his  "household  coat,"  and  he 

Now  "show'd  the  world  he  was  a  gentleman," 
And,  what  is  better,  could  afford  to  be ; 

His  step  was  loftier  than  it  was  of  old, 

His  laugh  less  frequent,  and  his  manner  told 

CXL. 

What  lovers  call  "unutterable  things" — 

That  sort  of  dignity  was  in  his  mien 
Which  awes  the  gazer  into  ice,  and  brings 

To  recollection  some  great  man  we've  seen, 
The  Governor,  perchance,  whose  eye  and  frown, 
'Twas  shrewdly  guess'd,  would  knock  Judge  .Skinner  down. 

CXLI. 

And  for  "  Resources,"  both  of  purse  and  head, 
He  was  a  subject  worthy  Bristed's  pen ; 

Believed  devoutly  all  his  flatterers  said, 

And  deem'd  himself  a  Croesus  among  men ; 

Spread  to  the  liberal  air  his  silken  sails, 

And  lavish'd  guineas  like  a  Prince  of  Wales. 


F  A  N  N  Y.  57 


CXLII. 

He  mingled  now  with  those  within  whose  Veins 
The  blood  ran  pure — the  magnates  of  the  land — 

Hail'd  them  as  his  companions  and  his  friends, 
And  lent  them  money  and  his  note  of  hand. 

In  every  institution,  whose  proud  aim 

Is  public  good  alone,  he  soon  became 

CXLIII. 

A  man  of  consequence  and  notoriety ; 

His  name,  with  the  addition  of  esquire, 
Stood  high  upon  the  list  of  each  society, 

Whose  zeal  and  watchfulness  the  sacred  fire 
Of  science,  agriculture,  art,  and  learning, 
Keep  on  our  country's  altars  bright  and  burning. 

CXLIV. 

At  Eastburn's  Rooms  he  met,  at  two  each  day, 
With  men  of  taste  and  judgment  like  his  own, 

And  play'd  "first  fiddle"  in  that  orchestra 
Of  literary  worthies — and  the  tone 

Of  his  mind's  music,  by  the  listeners  caught, 

Is  traced  among  them  still  in  language  and  in  thought. 


58  FANNY. 

CXLV. 

He  once  made  the  Lyceum  a  choice  present 
Of  muscle  shells  pick'd  up  at  Rockaway ; 

And   Mitchill  gave  a  classical  and  pleasant 
Discourse  about  them  in  the  streets  that  day, 

Naming  the  shells,  and  hard  to  put  in  verse  'twas, 

"  Testaceous  coverings  of  bivalve  moluscas." 

CXLVI. 

He  was  a  trustee  of  a  Savings  Bank, 

And  lectured  soundly  every  evil  doer, 
Gave  dinners  daily  to  wealth,  power,  and  rank, 

And  sixpence  every  Sunday  to  the  poor ; 
He  was  a  wit,  in  the  pun-making  line — 
Past  fifty  years  of  age,  and  five  feet  nine. 

CXLVII. 

But  as  he  trod  to  grandeur's  pinnacle, 

With  eagle  eye  and  step  that  never  falter'd, 

The  busy  tongue  of  scandal  dared  to  tell 

That  cash  was  scarce  with  him,  and  credit  alter'd; 

And  while  he  stood  the  envy  of  beholders, 

The  Bank  Directors  grinn'd,  and  shrugg'd  their  shoulders. 


FANNY.  59 

CXLVIII. 

And  when  these,  the  Lord  Burleighs  of  the  minute, 
Shake  their  sage  heads,  and  look  demure  and  holy, 

Depend  upon  it  there  is  something  in  it; 
For  whether  born  of  wisdom  or  of  fblly, 

Suspicion  is  a  being  whose  fell  power 

Blights  every  thing  it  touches,  fruit  and  flower. 

CXLIX. 

Some  friends  (they  were  his  creditors)  once  hinted 
About  retrenchment  and  a  day  of  doom  ; 

He  thank'd  them,  as  no  doubt  they  kindly  meant  it, 
And  made  this  speech,  when  they  had  left  the  room: 

"  Of  all  the  curses  upon  mortals  sent, 

One's  creditors  are  the  most  impudent; 


CL. 


"Now  I  am  one  who  knows  what  he  is  doing, 
And  suits  exactly  to  his  means  his  ends; 

How  can  a  man  be  in  the  path  to  ruin, 

When  all  the  brokers  are  his  bosom  friends? 

Yet,  on  my  hopes,  and  those  of  my  dear  daughter, 

These  rascals  throw  a  bucket  of  cold  water ! 


60  FANNY. 


CLI. 

"  They'd  wrinkle  with  deep  cares  the  prettiest  face, 
Pour  gall  and  wormwood  in  the  sweetest  cup, 

Poison  the  very  wells  of  life — and  place 

Whitechapel  needles,  with  their  sharp  points  up, 

Even  in  the  softest  feather  bed  that  e'er 

Was  manufactured  by  upholsterer." 

CLII. 

This  said — he  journey'd  "at  his  own  sweet  will," 
Like  one  of  Wordsworth's  rivers,  calmly  on; 

But  yet,  at  times,  Reflection,  "in  her  still 

Small  voice,"  would  whisper,  something  must  be  done ; 

He  ask'd  advice  of  Fanny,  and  the  maid 

Promptly  and  duteously  lent  her  aid. 

CLIII. 

She  told  him,  with  that  readiness  of  mind 
And  quickness  of  perception  which  belong 

Exclusively  to  gentle  womankind, 

That  to  submit  to  slanderers  was  wrong, 

And  the  best  plan  to  silence  and  admonish  them, 

Would  be  to  give  "a  party" — and  astonish  them. 


FANNY.  61 


CLIV. 

The  hint  was  taken — and  the  party  given; 

And  Fanny,  as  I  said  some  pages  since, 
Was  there  in  power  and  loveliness  that  even, 

And  he,  her  sire,  demean'd  him  like  a  prince, 
And  all  was  joy — it  look'd  a  festival, 
Where  pain  might  smooth  his  brow,  and  grief  her  smiles 
recall. 

CLV. 

But  Fortune,  like  some  others  of  her  sex, 

Delights  in  tantalizing  and  tormenting; 
One  day  we  feed  upon  their  smiles — the  next 

Is  spent  in  swearing,  sorrowing,  and  repenting. 
(If  in  the  last  four  lines  the  author  lies, 
He's  always  ready  to  apologize.) 

CLVI. 

Eve  never  walk'd  in  Paradise  more  pure 

Than  on  that  morn  when  Satan  play'd  the  devil 

With  her  and  all  her  race.     A  love-sick  wooer 
Ne'er  ask'd  a  kinder  maiden,  or  more  civil, 

Than  Cleopatra  was  to  Antony 

The  day  she  left  him  on  the  Ionian  sea. 

F 


62  FANNY. 

CLVII. 

The  serpent — loveliest  in  his  coiled  ring, 

With  eye  that  charms,  and  beauty  that  outvies 

The  tints  of  the  rainbow — bears  upon  his  sting 
The  deadliest  venom.     Ere  the  dolphin  dies 

Its  hues  are  brightest.     Like  an  infant's  breath 

Are  tropic  winds,  before  the  voice  of  death 

CLVIII. 

Is  heard  upon  the  waters,  summoning 

The  midnight  earthquake  from  its  sleep  of  years 

To  do  its  task  of  wo.     The  clouds  that  fling 
The  lightning,  brighten  ere  the  bolt  appears ; 

The  pantings  of  the  warrior's  heart  are  proud 

Upon  that  battle  morn  whose  night-dews  wet  his  shroud ; 

CLIX. 

The  sun  is  loveliest  as  he  sinks  to  rest; 

The  leaves  of  autumn  smile  when  fading  fast; 
The  swan's  last  song  is  sweetest — and  the  best 

Of  Meigs's  speeches,  doubtless,  was  his  last. 
And  thus  the  happiest  scene,  in  these  my  rhymes, 
Closed  with  a  crash,  and  usher'd  hi — hard  times. 


FANNY.  63 

CLX. 

St.  Paul's  toll'd  one — and  fifteen  minutes  after 

Down  came,  by  accident,  a  chandelier; 
The  mansion  totter'd  from  the  floor  to  rafter! 

Up  rose  the  cry  of  agony  and  fear ! 
And  there  was  shrieking,  screaming,  bustling,  fluttering, 
Beyond  the  power  of  writing  or  of  uttering. 

CLXI. 

The  company  departed,  and  neglected 

To  say  good-by — the  father  storm'd  and  swore — 

The  fiddlers  grinn'd — the  daughter  look'd  dejected — 
The  flowers  had  vanish'd  from  the  polish'd  floor, 

And  both  betook  them  to  their  sleepless  beds, 

With  hearts  and  prospects  broken,  but  no  heads, 

CLXII. 

The  desolate  relief  of  free  complaining 

Came  with  the  morn,  and  with  it  came  bad  weather ; 
The  wind  was  east-northeast,  and  it  was  raining 

Throughout  that  day,  which,  take  it  altogether, 
Was  one  whose  memory  clings  to  us  through  life, 
Just  like  a  suit  in  Chancery,  or  a  wife. 


64  FANNY. 

CLXIII. 

That  evening,  with  a  most  important  face 

And  dreadful  knock,  and  tidings  still  more  dreadful, 

A  notary  came — sad  things  had  taken  place; 
My  hero  had  forgot  to  "  do  the  needful ;" 

A  note  (amount  not  stated),  with  his  name  on't, 

Was  left  unpaid — in  short,  he  had  "  stopp'd  payment." 

CLXIV. 

I  hate  your  tragedies,  both  long  and  short  ones 
(Except  Tom  Thumb,  and  Juan's  Pantomime) ; 

And  stories  woven  of  sorrows  and  misfortunes 
Are  bad  enough  in  prose,  and  worse  in  rhyme ; 

Mine,  therefore,  must  be  brief.     Under  protest 

His  notes  remain — the  wise  can  guess  the  rest. 

CLXV. 

************* 
************* 


FANNY.  65 

CLXVI. 

For  two  whole  days  they  were  the  common  talk ; 

The  party,  and  the  failure,  and  all  that, 
The  theme  of  loungers  in  their  morning  walk, 

Porter-house  reasoning,  and  tea-table  chat, 
The  third,  some  newer  wonder  came  to  blot  them, 
And  on  the  fourth,  the  "meddling  world"  forgot  them. 

CLXVII. 

Anxious,  however,  something  to  discover, 

I  pass'd  their  house — the  shutters  were  all  closed ; 

The  song  of  knocker  and  of  bell  was  over ; 
Upon  the  steps  two  chimney  sweeps  reposed ; 

And  on  the  door  my  dazzled  eyebeam  met 

These  cabalistic  words — "this  house  to  let." 

CLXVIII. 

They  live  now,  like  chameleons,  upon  air 

And  hope,  and  such  cold,  unsubstantial  dishes; 

That  they  removed,  is  clear,  but  when  or  where 
None  knew.     The  curious  reader,  if  he  wishes. 

May  ask  them,  but  in  vain.     Where  grandeur  dwells, 

The  marble  dome — the  popular  rumour  tells; 
F2 


66  FANNY. 

CLXIX. 

But  of  the  dwelling  of  the  proud  and  poor 

From  their  own  lips  the  world  will  never  know 

When  better  days  are  gone — it  is  secure 
Beyond  all  other  mysteries  here  below, 

Except,  perhaps,  a  maiden  lady's  age, 

When  past  the  noonday  of  life's  pilgrimage. 

CLXX. 

Fanny!  'twas  with  her  name  my  song  began; 

'Tis  proper  and  polite  her  name  should  end  it ; 
If  in  my  story  of  her  woes,  or  plan 

Or  moral  can  be  traced,  'twas  not  intended ; 
And  if  I've  wrong'd  her,  I  can  only  tell  her 
I'm  sorry  for  it — so  is  my  bookseller. 

CLXXI. 

I  met  her  yesterday — her  eyes  were  wet — 

She  faintly  smiled,  and  said  she  had  been  reading 

The  Treasurer's  Report  in  the  Gazette, 

M'Intyre's  speech,  and  Campbell's  "Love  lies  bleeding;" 

She  had  a  shawl  on,  'twas  not  a  Cashmere  one, 

And  if  it  cost  five  dollars,  'twas  a  dear  one. 


FANNY.  67 

CLXXII. 

Her  father  sent  to  Albany  a  prayer 

For  office,  told  how  fortune  had  abused  him, 

And  modestly  requested  to  be  Mayor — 
The  Council  very  civilly  refused  him ; 

Because,  however  much  they  might  desire  it, 

The  "public  good,"  it  seems,  did  not  require  it. 

CLXXIII. 

Some  evenings  since,  he  took  a  lonely  stroll 
Along  Broadway,  scene  of  past  joys  and  evils ; 

He  felt  that  withering  bitterness  of  soul, 
Quaintly  denominated  the  "blue  devils;" 

And  thought  of  Bonaparte  and  Belisarius, 

Pompey,  and  Colonel  Burr,  and  Caius  Marius, 

CLXXIV. 

And  envying  the  loud  playfulness  and  mirth 

Of  those  who  passed  him,  gay  in  youth  and  hope, 

He  took  at  Jupiter  a  shilling's  worth 

Of  gazing,  through  the  showman's  telescope ; 

Sounds  as  of  far-off  bells  came  on  his  ears, 

He  fancied  'twas  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


68  FANNY. 

CLXXV. 

He  was  mistaken,  it  was  no  such  thing, 

'Twas  Yankee  Doodle  play'd  by  Scudder's  band; 

He  mutter'd,  as  he  linger'd  listening, 

Something  of  freedom  and  our  happy  land ; 

Then  sketch'd,  as  to  his  home  he  hurried  fast, 

This  sentimental  song — his  saddest,  and  his  last. 


I. 


Young  thoughts  have  music  in  them,  love 

And  happiness  their  theme; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  there  are  angel  voices  heard, 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours, 
When  life  is  but  an  April  day 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers. 


FANNY.  69 


II. 


There's  music  in  the  forest  leaves 

When  summer  winds  are  there, 
And  in  the  laugh  of  forest  girls 

That  braid  their  sunny  hair. 
The  first  wild  bird  that  drinks  the  dew, 

From  violets  of  the  spring, 
Has  music  in  his  song,  and  in 

The  fluttering  of  his  wing. 


III. 


There's  music  in  the  dash  of  waves 

When  the  swift  bark  cleaves  their  foam; 
There's  music  heard  upon  her  deck, 

The  mariner's  song  of  home, 
When  moon  and  star  beams  smiling  meet 

At  midnight  on  the  sea — 
And  there  is  music— once  a  week 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 


70  FANNY. 


IV. 

But  the  music  of  young  thoughts  too  soon 

Is  faint,  and  dies  away, 
And  from  our  morning  dreams  we  wake 

To  curse  the  coming  day. 
And  childhood's  frolic  hours  are  brief, 

And  oft'  in  after  years 
Their  memory  comes  to  chill  the  heart, 

And  dim  the  eye  with  tears. 


V. 


To-day,  the  forest  leaves  are  green, 

They'll  wither  on  the  morrow, 
And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  changed  ere  long 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Come  with  the  winter  snows,  and  ask 

Where  are  the  forest  birds? 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one, 

More  eloquent  than  words. 


FANNY.  71 


VI. 


The  moonlight  music  of  the  waves 

In  storms  is  heard  no  more, 
When  the  living  lightning  mocks  the  wreck 

At  midnight  on  the  shore, 
And  the  mariner's  song  of  home  has  ceased, 

His  corse  is  on  the  sea — 
And  music  ceases  when  it  rains 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 


THE    RECORDER. 
G 


THE     RECORDER. 

A.     PETITION. 

BY      THOMAS      CASTALY. 
Dec.  20,  1828. 


"  On  they  move 

In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  RECORDERS." 

Milton. 

'•  Live  in  Settles  numbers  one  day  more !" 

Pope. 


MY  dear  RECORDER,  you  and  I 

Have  floated  down  life's  stream  together, 
And  kept  unharm'd  our  friendship's  tie 
Through  every  change  of  Fortune's  sky, 

Her  pleasant  and  her  rainy  weather. 


76  THE     RECORDER. 

Full  sixty  times  since  first  we  met, 
Our  birthday  suns  have  risen  and  set, 
And  time  has  worn  the  baldness  now 
Of  Julius  Csesar  on  your  brow ; 
Your  brow,  like  his,  a  field  of  thought, 
With  broad  deep  furrows,  spirit-wrought, 
Whose  laurel  harvests  long  have  shown 
As  green  and  glorious  as  his  own ; 
And  proudly  would  the  CJESAR  claim 
Companionship  with  R*K*R'S  name, 
His  peer  in  forehead  and  in  fame. 


Both  eloquent  and  learn'd  and  brave, 

Born  to  command  and  skill'd  to  rule, 
One  made  the  citizen  a  slave, 

The  other  makes  him  more — a  fool. 
The  Caesar  an  imperial  crown, 

His  slaves'  mad  gift,  refused  to  wear, 
The  R*k*r  put  his  fool's  cap  on, 

And  found  it  fitted  to  a  hair; 
The  Csesar,  though  by  birth  and  breeding, 
Travel,  the  ladies,  and  light  reading, 

A  gentleman  in  mien  and  mind, 


THE     RECORDER.  77 

And  fond  of  Romans  and  their  mothers, 
Was  heartless  as  the  Arab's  wind, 
And  slew  some  millions  of  mankind, 

Including  enemies  and  others. 
The  R*k*r,  like  Bob  Acres,  stood 
Edgeways  upon  a  field  of  blood, 

The  where  and  wherefore  Swartwout  knows, 
Pull'd  trigger,  as  a  brave  man  should, 

And  shot,  God  bless  them* — his  own  toes. 
The  Caesar  pass'd  the  Rubicon 
With  helm,  and  shield,  and  breastplate  on, 

Dashing  his  war-horse  through  the  waters; 
The  R*k*r  would  have  built  a  barge 
Or  steamboat  at  the  city's  charge, 

And  pass'd  it  with  his  wife  and  daughters. 


But  let  that  pass.     As  I  have  said, 
There's  naught,  save  laurels,  on  your  head, 
And  time  has  changed  my  clustering  hair, 
And  shower'd  the  snow-flakes  thickly  there; 
And  though  our  lives  have  ever  been, 
As  different  as  their  different  scene; 
G  2 


78  THE     RECORDER. 

Mine  more  renown'd  for  rhymes  than  riches, 
Yours    less  for  scholarship  than  speeches ; 
Mine  pass'd  in  low-roof'd  leafy  bower, 
Yours  in  high  halls  of  pomp  and  power, 
Yet  are  we,  be  the  moral  told. 
Alike  in  one  thing — growing  old, 
Ripen'd  like  summer's  cradled  sheaf, 
Faded  like  autumn's  falling  leaf — 
And  nearing,  sail  and  signal  spread, 
The  quiet  anchorage  of  the  dead. 
For  such  is  human  life,  wherever 

The  voyage  of  its  bark  may  be, 
On  home's  green-bank  'd  and  gentle  river, 

Or  the  world's  shoreless,  sleepless  sea. 


Yes,  you  have  floated  down  the  tide 
Of  time,  a  swan  in  grace  and  pride 
And  majesty  and  beauty,  till 
The  law,  the  Ariel  of  your  will, 
Power's  best  beloved,  the  law  of  libel 
(A  bright  link  in  the  legal  chain) 
Expounded,  settled,  and  made  plain, 
By  your  own  charge,  the  jurors'  Bible, 


THE      RECORDER.  79 

Has  clipp'd  the  venom'd  tongue  of  slander, 
That  dared  to  call  you  "  Party's  gander, 
The  leader  of  the  geese  who  make 

Our  cities'  parks  and  ponds  their  home, 
And  keep  her  liberties  awake 

By  cackling,  as  their  sires  saved  Rome. 
Gander  of  Party's  pond,  wherein 
Lizard,  and  toad,  and  terrapin, 
Your  alehouse  patriots,  are  seen, 

In  Faction's  feverish  sunshine  basking;" 
And  now,  to  rend  this  veil  of  lies, 
Word-woven  by  your  enemies, 
And  keep  your  sainted  memory  free 
From  tarnish  with  posterity, 

I  take  the  liberty  of  asking 
Permission,  sir,  to  write  your  life, 
With  all  its  scenes  of  calm  and  strife, 

And  all  its  turnings  and  its  windings, 
A  poem,  in  a  quarto  volume — 
Verse,  like  the  subject,  blank  and  solemn, 

With  elegant  appropriate  bindings, 
Of  rat  and  mole  skin  the  one  half, 
The  other  a  part  fox,  part  calf. 
Your  portrait,  graven  line  for  line, 
From  that  immortal  bust  in  plaster, 
The  master  piece  of  Art's  great  master, 


80  THE      RECORDER. 

Mr.  Praxiteles  Browere, 
Whose  trowel  is  a  thing  divine, 
Shall  smile  and  bow,  and  promise  there, 
And  twenty-nine  fine  forms  and  faces 

(The  Corporation  and  the  Mayor), 
Linked  hand  in  hand,  like  loves  and  graces, 

Shall  hover  o'er  it,  group'd  in  air, 
With  wild  pictorial  dance  and  song; 
The  song  of  happy  bees  in  bowers, 
The  dance  of  Guide's  graceful  hours, 
All  scattering  Flushing's  garden  flowers 

Round  the  dear  head  they've  loved  so  long. 


I  know  that  you  are  modest,  know 

That  when  you  hear  your  merit's  praise, 

Your  cheeks  quick  blushes  come  and  go, 

Lilly  and  rose-leaf,  sun  and  snow, 
Like  maidens'  on  their  bridal  days. 

I  know  that  you  would  fain  decline 

To  aid  me  and  the  sacred  nine, 

In  giving  to  the  asking  earth 

The  story  of  your  wit  and  worth ; 


THE      RECORDER.  81 

For  if  there  be  a  fault  to  cloud 

The  brightness  of  your  clear  good  sense, 
It  is,  and  be  the  fact  allow'd, 

Your  only  failing — DIFFIDENCE  ! 
An  amiable  weakness — given 

To  justify  the  sad  reflection, 
That  in  this  vale  of  tears  not  even 

A  R*k*r  is  complete  perfection, 
A  most  romantic  detestation 
Of  power  and  place,  of  pay  and  ration ; 
A  strange  unwillingness  to  carry 

The  weight  of  honour  on  your  shoulders, 
For  which  you  have  been  named,  the  very 

Sensitive  Plant  of  office-holders, 
A  shrinking  bashfulness,  whose  grace 
Gives  beauty  to  your  manly  face. 
Thus  shades  the  green  and  growing  vine 
The  rough  bark  of  the  mountain  pine, 
Thus  round  her  freedom's  waking  steel 

Harmodius  wreathed  his  country's  myrtle; 
And  thus  the  golden  lemon's  peel 

Gives  fragrance  to  a  bowl  of  turtle. 


82  THE      RECORDER. 


True,  "many  a  flower,"  the  poet  sings, 

"Is  born  to  blush  unseen;" 
But  you,  although  you  blush,  are  not 

The  flower  the  poets  mean. 
In  vain  you  wooed  a  lowlier  lot : 

In  vain  you  clipp'd  your  eagle-wings — 
Talents  like  yours  are  not  forgot 

And  buried  with  earth's  common  things. 
No!  my  dear  R*k*r,  I  would  give 
My  laurels,  living  and  to  live, 
Or  as  much  cash  as  you  could  raise  on 
Their  value,  by  hypothecation, 
To  be,  for  one  enchanted  hour, 
In  beauty,  majesty,  and  power, 
What  you  for  forty  years  have  been, 
The  Oberon  of  life's  fairy  scene. 


An  anxious  city  sought  and  found  you 
In  a  blessed  day  of  joy  and  pride, 

Scepter'd  your  jewell'd  hand,  and  crown'd  you 
Her  chief,  her  guardian,  and  her  guide. 


THE      RECORDER.  83 

Honours  which  weaker  minds  had  wrought 

In  vain  for  years,  and  knelt  and  pray'd  for, 
Are  all  your  own,  unpriced,  unbought, 

Or  (which  is  the  same  thing)  unpaid  for. 
Painfully  great !  against  your  will 

Her  hundred  offices  to  hold, 
Each  chair  with  dignity  to  fill, 

And  your  own  pockets  with  her  gold. 
A  sort  of  double  duty,  making 
Your  task  a  serious  undertaking. 


With  what  delight  the  eyes  of  all 
Gaze  on  you,  seated  in  your  Hall, 

Like  Sancho  in  his  island,  reigning, 
Loved  leader  of  its  motley  hosts 
Of  lawyers  and  their  bills  of  costs, 

And  all  things  thereto  appertaining, 
Such  as  crimes,  constables,  and  juries, 
Male  pilferers  and  female  furies, 
The  police  and  the  polissons, 
Illegal  right  and  legal  wrong. 
Bribes,  perjuries,  law-craft,  and  cunning, 
Judicial  drollery  and  punning; 


84  THE      RECORDER. 

And  all  the  et  ceteras  that  grace 
That  genteel,  gentlemanly  place! 
Or  in  the  Council  Chamber  standing 

With  eloquence  of  eye  and  brow, 
Your  voice  the  music  of  commanding, 

And  fascination  in  your  bow, 
Arranging  for  the  civic  shows 

Your  "  men  in  buckram,"  as  per  list, 
Your  John  Does  and  your  Richard  Roes, 

Those  Dummys  of  your  games  of  whist. 
The  Council  Chamber — where  authority 
Consists  in  two  words — a  majority. 
For  whose  contractors'  jobs  we  pay 

Our  last  dear  sixpences  for  taxes, 
As  freely  as  in  Sylla's  day, 

Rome  bled  beneath  his  lictors'  axes. 
Where — on  each  magisterial  nose 

In  colours  of  the  rainbow  linger, 
Like  sunset  hues  on  Alpine  snows, 

The  printmarks  of  your  thumb  and  finger. 
Where  he,  the  wisest  of  wild  fowl, 
Bird  of  Jove's  blue-eyed  maid — the  owl, 

That  feather'd  alderman,  is  heard 
Nightly,  by  poet's  ear  alone, 
To  other  eyes  and  ears  unknown, 

Cheering  your  every  look  and  word, 


THE      RECORDER.  85 

And  making,  room  and  gallery  through, 

The  loud,  applauding  echoes  peal, 
Of  his  "  oii  pent  on  etre  mieux 
Qw'aw  sein  de  sa  familleV1* 


Oh  for  a  herald's  skill  to  rank 

Your  titles  in  their  due  degrees ! 
At  Singsing — at  the  Tradesmen's  Bank, 

In  Courts,  Committees,  Caucuses : 
At  Albany,  where  those  who  knew 

The  last  year's  secrets  of  the  great, 
Call  you  the  golden  handle  to 

The  earthen  Pitcher  of  the  State. 
(Poor  Pitcher!  that  Van  Buren  ceases 

To  want  its  service  gives  me  pain, 
'Twill  break  into  as  many  pieces 

As  Kitty's  of  Coleraine.) 
At  Bellevue,  on  her  banquet  night, 

Where  Burgundy  and  business  meet, 
On  others,  at  the  heart's  delight, 

The  Pewter  Mug  in  Frankfort-street ; 

*  A  favourite  French  air.    In  English,  "  where  can  one  be  more  happy 
than  in  the  bosom  of  one's  family?" 

H 


86  THE   RECORDER. 

From  Harlaem  bridge  to  Whitehall  dock, 

From  Bloomingdale  to  Blackwell's  Isles, 
Forming,  including  road  and  rock, 

A  city  of  some  twelve  square  miles, 
O'er  street  and  alley,  square  and  block, 

Towers,  temples,  telegraphs,  and  tiles, 
O'er  wharves  whose  stone  and  timbers  mock 
The  ocean's  and  its  navies'  shock, 
O'er  all  the  fleets  that  float  before  her, 
O'er  all  their  banners  waving  o'er  her, 
Her  sky  and  waters,  earth  and  air — 
You  are  lord,  for  who  is  her  lord  mayor? 
Where  is  he?     Echo  answers,  where? 
And  voices,  like  the  sound  of  seas, 
Breathe  in  sad  chorus,  on  the  breeze, 
The  Highland  mourner's  melody — 
Oh  HONE  a  rie!     Oh  HONE  a  rie! 
The  hymn  o'er  happy  days  departed, 

The  hope  that  such  again  may  be, 
When  power  was  large  and  liberal-hearted, 

And  wealth  was  hospitality. 


THE      RECORDER.  87 


One  more  request,  and  I  am  lost, 

If  you  its  earnest  prayer  deny ; 
It  is,  that  you  preserve  the  most 

Inviolable  secrecy 

As  to  my  plan.     Our  fourteen  wards 
Contain  some  thirty-seven  bards, 
Who,  if  my  glorious  theme  were  known, 
Would  make  it,  thought  and  word,  their  own, 
My  hopes  and  happiness  destroy, 
And  trample  with  a  rival's  joy 

Upon  the  grave  of  my  renown. 
My  younger  brothers  in  the  art, 
Whose  study  is  the  human  heart — 
Minstrels,  before  whose  spells  have  bow'd 
The  learn'd,  the  lovely,  and  the  proud, 

Ere  there  life's  morning  hours  are  gone — 
Light  hearts  be  theirs,  the  muse's  boon, 
And  may  their  suns  blaze  bright  at  noon, 

And  set  without  a  cloud. 


88  THE      RECORDER. 


HILLHOUSE,  whose  music,  like  his  themes, 
Lifts  earth  to  heaven — whose  poet  dreams 
Are  pure  and  holy  as  the  hymn 
Echoed  from  harps  of  seraphim, 
By  bards  that  drank  at  Zion's  fountains 

When  glory,  peace,  and  hope  were  hers, 
And  beautiful  upon  her  mountains 

The  feet  of  angel  messengers. 
BRYANT,  whose  songs  are  thoughts  that  bless 

The  heart,  its  teachers,  and  its  joy, 
As  mothers  blend  with  their  caress 
Lessons  of  truth  and  gentleness 

And  virtue  for  the  listening  boy. 
Spring's  lovelier  flowers  for  many  a  day 
Have  blossom'd  on  his  wandering  way, 
Beings  of  beauty  and  decay, 

They  slumber  in  their  autumn  tomb; 
But  those  that  graced  his  own  Green  River, 

And  wreathed  the  lattice  of  his  home, 
Charm'd  by  his  song  from  mortal  doom, 

Bloom  on,  and  will  bloom  on  for  ever. 
And  HALLKCK — who  has  made  thy  roof, 
St.  Tammany!  oblivion-proof— 


THE      RECORDER.  89 

Thy  beer  illustrious,  and  thee 

A  belted  knight  of  chivalry ; 

And  changed  thy  dome  of  painted  bricks, 

And  porter  casks  and  politics, 

Into  a  green  Arcadian  vale, 
With  St*ph*n  All*n  for  its  lark, 
B*n  B*il*y's  voice  its  watch-dog's  bark, 

And  J*hn  T*rg*e  its  nightingale. 


These,  and  the  other  THIRTY-FOUR, 
Will  live  a  thousand  years  or  more — 
If  the  world  lasts  so  long.     For  me, 
I  rhyme  not  for  posterity, 
Though  pleasant  to  my  heirs  might  be 

The  incense  of  its  praise, 
When  I,  their  ancestor,  have  gone, 
And  paid  the  debt,  the  only  one 

A  poet  ever  pays. 
But  many  are  my  years,  and  few 
Are  left  me  ere  night's  holy  dew, 
And  sorrow's  holier  tears,  will  keep 
The  grass  green  where  in  death  I  sleep. 
H  2 


90  THE      RECORDER. 

And  when  that  grass  is  green  above  me, 
And  those  who  bless  me  now  and  love  me 

Are  sleeping  by  my  side, 
Will  it  avail  me  aught  that  men 
Tell  to  the  world  with  lip  and  pen 

That  once  I  lived  and  died? 
9        No :  if  a  garland  for  my  brow 
Is  growing,  let  me  have  it  now, 

While  I'm  alive  to  wear  it; 
And  if,  in  whispering  my  name, 
There's  music  in  the  voice  of  fame 

Like  Garcia's,  let  me  hear  it! 


The  Christmas  holydays  are  nigh, 
Therefore,  till  Newyear's  Eve,  good-by, 

Then  revenons  a  nos  moutons, 
Yourself  and  aldermen — meanwhile, 
Look  o'er  this  letter  with  a  smile; 
And  keep  the  secret  of  its  song 
As  faithfully,  but  not  as  long, 
As  you  have  guarded  from  the  eyes 
Of  editorial  Paul  Prys, 


THE      RECORDER.  91 

And  other  meddling,  murmuring  claimants, 
Those  Eleusinian  mysteries, 

The  city's  cash  receipts  and  payments. 


Yours  ever, 

T.  C. 


EPISTLES,    ETC. 


TO 


W*LT*R    B*WNE,   ESQ., 


MEMBER    OF    THE    COUNCIL    OF   APPOINTMENT    OF    THE    STATE    OF 
NEW- YORK,    AT    ALBANY,    1821. 


"  Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once." 

"  I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  precious  to  me." 

Macbeth. 


WE  do  not  blame  you,  W*lt*r  B*wne, 

For  a  variety  of  reasons ; 
You're  now  the  talk  of  half  the  town, 
A  man  of  talent  and  renown, 

And  will  be  for  perhaps  two  seasons. 


96  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

That  face  of  yours  has  magic  in  it ; 
Its  smile  transports  us  in  a  minute 

To  wealth  and  pleasure's  sunny  bowers ; 
And  there  is  terror  in  its  frown, 
Which,  like  a  mower's  scythe,  cuts  down 

Our  city's  loveliest  flowers. 


We  therefore  do  not  blame  you,  sir, 

Whate'er  our  cause  of  grief  may  be ; 
And  cause  enough  we  have  to  "stir 

The  very  stones  to  mutiny." 
You've  driven  from  the  cash  and  cares 
Of  office,  heedless  of  our  prayers, 
Men  who  have  been  for  many  a  year 
To  us  and  to  our  purses  dear, 

And  will  be  to  our  heirs  for  ever, 
Our  tears,  thanks  to  the  snow  and  rain, 
Have  swell'd  the  brook  in  Maiden-lane 

Into  a  mountain  river; 
And  when  you  visit  us  again, 
Leaning  at  Tammany  on  your  cane, 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  97 

Like  warrior  on  his  battle  blade, 
You'll  mourn  the  havoc  you  have  made. 


There  is  a  silence  and  a  sadness 
Within  the  marble  mansion  now ; 
Some  have  wild  eyes  that  threaten  madness, 

Some  think  of  "kicking  up  a  row." 
Judge  M*ll*r  will  not  yet  believe 
That  you  have  ventured  to  bereave 

The  city  and  its  hall  of  him : 
He  has  in  his  own  fine  way  stated, 
"  The  fact  must  be  substantiated," 

Before  he'll  move  a  single  limb. 
He  deems  it  cursed  hard  to  yield 
The  laurel  won  in  every  field 

Through  sixteen  years  of  party  war, 
And  to  be  seen  at  noon  no  more, 
Enjoying  at  his  office  door 

The  luxury  of  a  tenth  segar. 
Judge  Warner  says  that,  when  he's  gone, 

You'll  miss  the  true  Dogberry  breed; 
And  Christian  swears  that  you  have  done 

A  most  UN-Christian  deed. 
I 


98  EPISTLES,    ETC. 


How  could  you  have  the  heart  to  strike 
From  place  the  peerless  Pierre  Van  Wyck? 
And  the  twin  colonels,  Haines  and  Pell, 
Squire  Fessenden,  and  Sheriff  Bell ; 
M*rr*ll,  a  justice  and  a  wise  one, 
And  Ned  M'Laughlin  the  exciseman ; 
The  two  health  officers,  believers 
In  Clinton  and  contagious  fevers  ; 
The  keeper  of  the  city's  treasures, 
The  sealer  of  her  weights  and  measures, 
The  harbour-master,  her  best  bower 
Cable  in  party's  stormy  hour; 
Ten  auctioneers,  three  bank  directors, 
And  Mott  and  Duffy,  the  inspectors 
Of  whiskey  and  of  flour  ? 


It  was  but  yesterday  they  stood 
All  (ex-officio)  great  and  good. 
But  by  the  tomahawk  struck  down 
Of  party  and  of  W*lt*r  B*wne, 


E  P  I  S  T  L  E  S,     E  T  C.  99 

Where  are  they  now  ?     With  shapes  of  air, 
The  caravan  of  things  that  were, 
Journeying  to  their  nameless  home, 
Like  Mecca's  pilgrims  from  her  tomb; 
With  the  lost  Pleiad;  with  the  wars 
Of  Agamemnon's  ancestors ; 
With  their  own  years  of  joy  and  grief, 
Spring's  bud,  and  autumn's  faded  leaf; 
With  birds  that  round  their  cradles  flew; 
With  winds  that  in  their  boyhood  blew; 
With  last  night's  dream  and  last  night's  dew. 


Yes,  they  are  gone ;  alas !  each  one  of  them ; 

Departed — every  mother's  son  of  them. 

Yet  often,  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  thoughts  are  wing'd  and  wandering,  they 

Come  with  the  memory  of  the  past, 

Like  sunset  clouds  along  the  mind, 
Reflecting,  as  they're  flitting  fast 
In  their  wild  hues  of  shade  and  light, 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  bright 

In  golden  moments  left  behind. 


Q 


DEAR  ***,  I  am  writing,  not  to  you,  but  at  you, 
For  the  feet  of  you  tourists  have  no  resting-place ; 

But  wherever  with  this  the  mail-pigeon  may  catch  you, 
May  she  find  you  with  gayety's  smile  on  your  face; 
I  2 


102  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

Whether  chasing  a  snipe  at  the  Falls  of  Cohoes, 
Or  chased  by  the  snakes  upon  Anthony's  Nose ; 
Whether  wandering,  at  Catskill,  from  Hotel  to  Clove, 
Making  sketches,  or  speeches,  puns,  poems,  or  love ; 
Or  in  old  Saratoga's  unknown  fountain -land, 
Threading  groves  of  enchantment,  half  bushes,  half  sand ; 
Whether  dancing  on  Sundays,  at  Lebanon  Springs, 

With  those  Madame  Hutins  of  religion,  the  Shakers ; 
Or,  on  Tuesdays,  with  maidens  who  seek  wedding  rings 

At  Ballston,  as  taught  by  mammas  and  match-makers ; 
Whether  sailing  St.  Lawrence,  with  unbroken  neck, 
From  her  thousand  green  isles  to  her  castled  Quebec; 
Or  sketching  Niagara,  pencil  on  knee 

(The  giant  of  waters,  our  country's  pet  lion), 
Or  dipp'd  at  Long  Branch,  in  the  real  salt  sea, 

With  a  cork  for  a  dolphin,  a  Cockney  Arion; 
Whether  roaming  earth,  ocean,  or  even  the  air, 
Like  Dan  O'Rourke's  eagle — good  luck  to  you  there. 


For  myself,  as  you'll  see  by  the  date  of  my  letter, 
I'm  in  town,  but  of  that  fact  the  least  said  the  better ; 
For  'tis  vain  to  deny  (though  the  city  o'erflows 
With  well-dressed  men  and  women,  whom  nobody  knows) 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  103 

That  one  rarely  sees  persons  whose  nod  is  an  honour, 

A  lady  with  fashion's  own  impress  upon  her ; 

Or  a  gentleman  bless'd  with  the  courage  to  say, 

Like  Morris  (the  Prince  Regent's  friend,  in  his  day), 

"Let  others  in  sweet  shady  solitudes  dwell, 

Oh !  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall," 


Apropos— our  friend  A.  chanced  this  morning  to  meet 

The  accomplish'd  Miss  B.  as  he  pass'd  Contoit's  Garden, 
Both  in  town  in  July! — he  cross'd  over  the  street, 

And  she  enter'd  the  rouge-shop  of  Mrs.  St.  Martin. 
Resolved  not  to  look  at  another  known  face, 
Through  Leonard  and  Church  streets  she  walked  to  Park 

Place, 
And  he  turn'd  from  Broadway  into  Catharine-lane, 

And  coursed,  to  avoid  her,  through  alley  and  by-street, 
Till  they  met,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  again, 

Face  to  face,  near  the  pump  at  the  corner  of  Dey-st. 


104 


EPISTLES,     ETC. 


Yet,  as  most  of  "The  Fashion"  are  journeying  now, 
With  the  brown  hues  of  summer  on  cheek  and  on  brow, 
The  few  "  gens  comme  il  faut"  who  are  lingering  here, 
Are,  like  fruits  out  of  season,  more  welcome  and  dear. 
Like  "the  last  rose  of  summer,  left  blooming  alone," 
Or  the  last  snows  of  winter,  pure  ice  of  haul  ton, 
Unmelted,  undimm'd  by  the  sun's  brightest  ray, 
And,  like  diamonds,  making  night's  darkness  seem  day. 
One  meets  them  in  groups,  that  Canova  might  fancy, 
At  our  new  lounge  at  evening,  the  Opera  Franqais, 
In  nines  like  the  Muses,  in  threes  like  the  Graces, 
Green  spots  in  a  desert  of  commonplace  faces. 
The  Queen,  Mrs.  Adams,  goes  there  sweetly  dress'd 

In  a  beautiful  bonnet,  all  golden  and  flowery: 
While  the  King,  Mr.  Bonaparte,  smiles  on  Celeste, 

Heloise,  and  Hutin,  from  his  box  at  the  Bowery. 


For  news,  Parry  still  the  North  Sea  is  exploring, 
And  the  Grand  Turk  has  taken,  they  say,  the  Acropolis, 

And  we,  in  Swamp  Place,  have  discover'd,  in  boring, 
A  mineral  spring  to  refine  the  metropolis. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  105 

The  day  we  discover'd  it  was,  by-the-way, 
In  the  life  of  the  Cockneys,  a  glorious  day. 
For  we  all  had  been  taught,  by  tradition  and  reading, 

That  to  gain  what  admits  us  to  levees  of  kings, 
The  gentleness,  courtesy,  grace  of  high  breeding, 

The  only  sure  way  was  to  "  visit  the  Springs." 
So  the  whole  city  visited  Swamp  Spring  en  masse, 

From  attorney  to  sweep,  from  physician  to  paviour, 
To  drink  of  cold  water  at  sixpence  a  glass, 

And  learn  true  politeness  and  genteel  behaviour. 
Though  the  crowd  was  immense  till  the  hour  of  departure, 

No  gentleman's  feelings  were  hurt  in  the  rush, 
Save  a  grocer's,  who  lost  his  proof-glass  and  bung-starter, 

And  a  chimney  sweep's,  robb'd  of  his  scraper  and  brush. 
They  linger'd  till  sunset  and  twilight  had  come, 

Then,  wearied  in  limb,  but  much  polish'd  in  manners, 
The  sovereign  people  moved  gracefully  home, 

In  the  beauty  and  pride  of  "  an  army  with  banners." 


As  to  politics — Adams  and  Clinton  yet  live, 

And  reign,  we  presume,  as  we  never  have  miss'd  'em, 

And  woollens  and  Webster  continue  to  thrive 
Under  something  they  call  the  American  System. 


106  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

If  you're  anxious  to  know  what  the  country  is  doing, 
Whether  ruin'd  already  or  going  to  ruin, 

And  who  her  next  president  will  be,  please  heaven, 
Read  the  letters  of  Jackson,  the  speeches  of  Clay, 
All  the  party  newspapers,  three  columns  a  day, 

And  Blunt's  Annual  Register,  year  'twenty-seven. 

*** 


A  FRAGMENT. 


His  shop  is  a  grocer's—a  snug,  genteel  place, 
Near  the  corner  of  Oak-street  and  Pearl ; 

He  can  dress,  dance,  and  bow  to  the  ladies  with  grace, 
And  ties  his  cravat  with  a  curl. 


108  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

He's  ask'd  to  all  parties — north,  south,  east,  and  west, 
That  take  place  between  Chatham  and  Cherry, 

And  when  he's  been  absent  full  oft  has  the  "  best 
Society"  ceased  to  be  merry. 


And  nothing  has  darken'd  a  sky  so  serene, 
Nor  disordered  his  beauship's  Elysium, 

Till  this  season  among  our  elite  there  has  been 
What  is  calPd  by  the  clergy  "a  schism." 


'Tis  all  about  eating  and  drinking — one  set 
Gives  sponge-cake,  a  few  "kisses"  or  so, 

And  is  cool'd  after  dancing  with  classic  sherbet, 
"Sublimed"  (see  Lord  Byron)  "with  snow." 


Another  insists  upon  punch  and  perdrix, 
Lobster-salad,  Champagne,  and,  by  way 

Of  a  novelty  only,  those  pearls  of  our  sea, 
Stew'd  oysters  from  Lynn-Haven  bay. 


EPISTLES,    ETC.  109 

Miss  Flounce,  the  young  milliner,  blue-eyed  and  bright, 

In  the  front  parlour  over  her  shop, 
"Entertains,"  as  the  phrase  is,  a  party  to-night, 

Upon  peanuts  and  ginger-pop. 


And   Miss  Fleece,  who's  a   hosier,  and   not   quite   as 
young, 

But  is  wealthier  far  than  Miss  Flounce, 
She  "entertains"  also  to-night  with  cold  tongue, 

Smoked  herring,  and  cherry-bounce. 


In  praise  of  cold  water  the  Theban  bard  spoke, 

He  of  Teos  sang  sweetly  of  wine ; 
Miss  Flounce  is  a  Pindar  in  cashmere  and  cloak, 

Miss  Fleece  an  Anacreon  divine. 


The  Montagues  carry  the  day  in  Swamp  Place; 

In  Pike-street  the  Capulets  reign; 
A  limonadiere  is  the  badge  of  one  race, 

Of  the  other  a  flask  of  Champagne. 
K 


110  EPISTLES,    ETC. 

Now  as  each  the  same  evening  her  soire&  announces, 

What  better,  he  asks,  can  be  done, 
Than   drink    water    from    eight    until    ten   with    the 
Flounces, 

And  then  wine  with  the  Fleeces  till  one! 
******** 


SONG. 


BY    MISS 


.Air,  "  To  ladies  eyes  a  round,  boy." 

MOORE. 


THE  winds  of  March  are  humming 
Their  parting  song,  their  parting  song, 

And  summer's  skies  are  coming, 
And  days  grow  long,  and  days  grow  long. 


112  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

I  watch,  but  not  in  gladness, 

Our  garden  tree,  our  garden  tree; 
It  buds,  in  sober  sadness, 

Too  soon  for  me,  too  soon  for  me. 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas!  and  I,  alas!  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover: 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


'Tis  not  asleep  or  idle 

That  love  has  been,  that  love  has  been; 
For  many  a  happy  bridal 

The  year  has  seen,  the  year  has  seen; 
I've  done  a  bridemaid's  duty, 

At  three  or  four,  at  three  or  four; 
My  best  bouquet  had  beauty, 
Its  donor  more,  its  donor  more. 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas !  and  I,  alas !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover : 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  113 


His  flowers  my  bosom  shaded 

One  sunny  day,  one  sunny  day; 
The  next,  they  fled  and  faded, 

Beau  and  bouquet,  beau  and  bouquet. 
In  vain,  at  ball  and  parties, 

I've  thrown  my  net,  I've  thrown  my  net; 
This  waltzing,  watching  heart  is 
Unchosen  yet,  unchosen  yet. 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas!  and  I,  alas!  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover: 
Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


They  tell  me  there's  no  hurry 

For  Hymen's  ring,  for  Hymen's  ring; 
And  I'm  too  young  to  marry: 

'Tis  no  such  thing,  'tis  no  such  thing. 
The  next  spring  tides  will  dash  on 

My  eighteenth  year,  my  eighteenth  year; 
It  puts  me  in  a  passion, 

Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  oh  dear,  oh  dear! 
K2 


114  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas !  and  I,  alas !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover: 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


SONG. 


FOR   THE    DRAMA   OF   "THE   SPY.' 


THE  harp  of  love,  when  first  I  heard 

Its  song  beneath  the  moonlight  tree, 
Was  echoed  by  his  plighted  word, 

And  ah,  how  dear  its  song  to  me ; 
But  wail'd  the  hour  will  ever  be 

When  to  the  air  the  bugle  gave, 
To  hush  love's  gentle  minstrelsy, 

The  wild  war  music  of  the  brave. 


116  EPISTLES,     ETC. 


For  he  hath  heard  its  song,  and  now 

Its  voice  is  sweeter  than  mine  own ; 
And  he  hath  broke  the  plighted  vow 

He  breathed  to  me  and  love  alone. 
That  harp  hath  lost  its  wonted  tone, 

No  more  its  strings  his  fingers  move, 
Oh  would  that  he  had  only  known 

The  music  of  the  harp  of  love. 
1822. 


ADDRESS, 


AT   THE    OPENING   OF   A   NEW  THEATRE. 


November,  1831. 


WHERE  dwells  the  Drama's  spirit?  not  alone   % 
Beneath  the  palace  roof,  beside  the  throne, 
In  learning's  cloisters,  friendship's  festal  bowers, 
Art's  pictured  halls,  or  triumph's  laurel'd  towers, 


118  EPISTLES,    ETC. 

Where'er  man's  pulses  beat  or  passions  play, 
She  joys  to  smile  or  sigh  his  thoughts  away : 
Crowd  times  and  scenes  within  her  ring  of  power, 
And  teach  a  life's  experience  in  an  hour. 


To-night  she  greets,  for  the  first  time,  our  dome, 
Her  latest,  may  it  prove  her  lasting  home; 
And  we  her  messengers  delighted  stand, 
The  summon'd  Ariels  of  her  mystic  wand, 
To  ask  your  welcome.     Be  it  yours  to  give 
Bliss  to  her  coming  hours,  and  bid  her  live 
Within  these  walls  new  hallo w'd  in  her  cause, 
Long  in  the  nurturing  warmth  of  your  applause. 


'Tis  in  the  public  smiles,  the  public  loves, 
His  dearest  home,  the  actor  breathes  and  moves, 
Your  plaudits  are  to  us  and  to  our  art 
As  is  the  life-blood  to  the  human  heart: 
And  every  power  that  bids  the  leaf  be  green, 
In  nature  acts  on  this  her  mimic  scene. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  119 

Our  sunbeams  are  the  sparklings  of  glad  eyes, 
Our  winds  the  whisper  of  applause,  that  flies 
From  lip  to  lip,  the  heart-born  laugh  of  glee, 
And  sounds  of  cordial  hands  that  ring  out  merrily, 
And  heaven's  own  dew  falls  on  us  in  the  tear 
That  woman  weeps  o'er  sorrows  pictured  here, 
When  crowded  feelings  have  no  words  to  tell 
The  might,  the  magic  of  the  actor's  spell. 


These  have  been  ours;  and  do  we  hope  in  vain 
Here,  oft  and  deep,  to  feel  them  ours  again? 
No !  while  the  weary  heart  can  find  repose 
From  its  own  pains  in  fiction's  joys  or  woes ; 
While  there  are  open  lips  and  dimpled  cheeks, 
When  music  breathes,  or  wit  or  humour  speaks; 
While  Shakspeare's  master  spirit  can  call  up 
Noblest  and  worthiest  thoughts,  and  brim  the  cup 
Of  life  with  bubbles  bright  as  happiness, 
Cheating  the  willing  bosom  into  bliss ; 
So  long  will  those  who,  in  their  spring  of  youth, 
Have  listen'd  to  the  Drama's  voice  of  truth, 
Mark'd  in  her  scenes  the  manners  of  their  age, 
And  gather'd  knowledge  for  a  wider  stage, 


120  EPISTLES,    ETC. 

Come  here  to  speed  with  smiles  life's  summer  years, 
And  melt  its  winter  snow  with  pleasant  tears; 
And  younger  hearts,  when  ours  are  hushed  and  cold, 
Be  happy  here  as  we  have  been  of  old. 


Friends  of  the  stage,  who  hail  it  as  the  shrine 
Where  music,  painting,  poetry  entwine 
Their  kindred  garlands,  whence  their  blended  power 
Refines,  exalts,  ennobles  hour  by  hour 
The  spirit  of  the  land,  and,  like  the  wind, 
Unseen  but  felt,  bears  on  the  bark  of  mind ; 
To  you  the  hour  that  consecrates  this  dome, 
Will  call  up  dreams  of  prouder  hours  to  come, 
When  some  creating  poet,  born  your  own, 
May  waken  here  the  drama's  loftiest  tone, 
Through  after  years  to  echo  loud  and  long, 
A  Shakspeare  of  the  West,  a  star  of  song, 
Bright'ning  your  own  blue  skies  with  living  fire, 
All  times  to  gladden  and  all  tongues  inspire, 
Far  as  beneath  the  heaven  by  sea-winds  fann'd, 
Floats  the  free  banner  of  your  native  land. 


THE    RHYME 


THE      ANCIENT      COASTER. 


Written  while  sailing  in  an  open  boat  on  the  Hudson  River,  between 
Stony  Point  and  the  Highlands,  on  seeing  the  wreck  of  an  old  sloop, 
June,  1821. 

"  And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

SHAKSPEARE. 


HER  side  is  in  the  water, 

Her  keel  is  in  the  sand, 
And  her  bowsprit  rests  on  the  low  gray  rock 

That  bounds  the  sea  and  land. 
L 


122  EPISTLES,    ETC. 

Her  deck  is  without  a  mast, 

And  sand  and  shells  are  there, 

And  the  teeth  of  decay  are  gnawing  her  planks, 
In  the  sun  and  the  sultry  air. 


No  more  on  the  river's  bosom, 

When  sky  and  wave  are  calm, 

And  the  clouds  are  in  summer  quietness, 
And  the  cool  night-breath  is  balm, 


Will  she  glide  in  the  swan-like  stillness 
Of  the  moon  in  the  blue  above, 

A  messenger  from  other  lands, 
A  beacon  to  hope  and  love. 


No  more,  in  the  midnight  tempest, 
Will  she  mock  the  mounting  sea, 

Strong  in  her  oaken  timbers, 

And  her  white  sail's  bravery. 


EPISTLES,    ETC.  123 


She  hath  borne,  in  days  departed, 
Warm  hearts  upon  her  deck ; 

Those  hearts,  like  her,  are  mouldering  now, 
The  victims,  and  the  wreck 


Of  time,  whose  touch  erases 

Each  vestige  of  all  we  love  5 

The  wanderers,  home  returning, 
Who  gazed  that  deck  above, 


And  they  who  stood  to  welcome 
Their  loved  ones  on  that  shore, 

Are  gone,  and  the  place  that  knew  them 
Shall  know  them  never  more. 


*  *          *  *  *  *          * 

******* 


124  EPISTLES,    ETC. 

It  was  a  night  of  terror, 

In  the  autumn  equinox, 
When  that  gallant  vessel  found  a  grave 

Upon  the  Peekskill  rocks. 


Captain,  mate,  cook,  and  seamen 
(They  were  in  all  but  three), 

Were  saved  by  swimming  fast  and  well, 
And  their  gallows-destiny. 


But  two,  a  youth  and  maiden, 

Were  left  to  brave  the  storm, 

With  unpronounceable  Dutch  names, 
And  hearts  with  true  love  warm. 


And  they,  for  love  has  watchers 
In  air,  on  earth,  and  sea, 

Were  saved  by  clinging  to  the  wreck, 
And  their  marriage-destiny. 


EPISTLES,    ETC.  125 


From  sunset  to  night's  noon 

She  had  lean'd  upon  his  arm, 

Nor  heard  the  far-off  thunder  toll 
The  tocsin  of  alarm. 


Not  so  the  youth — he  listen'd 

To  the  cloud-wing  flapping  by; 

And  low  he  whisper'd  in  Low  Dutch, 
"  It  tells  our  doom  is  nigh. 


"  Death  is  the  lot  of  mortals, 

But  we  are  young  and  strong, 

And  hoped,  not  boldly,  for  a  life 
Of  happy  years  and  long. 


"  Yet  'tis  a  thought  consoling, 
That,  till  our  latest  breath, 

We  loved  in  life,  and  shall  not  be 
Divided  in  our  death. 
L2 


126  EPISTLES,    ETC. 

"Alas,  for  those  that  wait  us 

On  their  couch  of  dreams  at  home, 

The  morn  will  hear  the  funeral  cry- 
Around  their  daughter's  tomb. 


"They  hoped"  ('twas  a  strange  moment 
In  Dutch  to  quote  Shakspeare) 

"Thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strew'd  thy  bier." 


But,  sweetly-voiced  and  smiling, 
The  trusting  maiden  said, 

"  Breathed  not  thy  lips  the  vow  to-day, 
To-morrow  we  will  wed? 


"  And  I,  who  have  known  thy  truth 
Through  years  of  joy  and  sorrow, 

Can  I  believe  the  fickle  winds? 

No !  we  shall  wed  to-morrow !" 


EPISTLES,     ET-C.  127 

The  tempest  heard  and  paused — 

The  wild  sea  gentler  moved — 
They  felt  the  power  of  woman's  faith 

In  the  word  of  him  she  loved. 


All  night  to  rope  and  spar 

They  clung  with  strength  untired, 
Till  the  dark  clouds  fled  before  the  sun, 

And  the  fierce  storm  expired. 


At  noon  the  song  of  bridal  bells 
O'er  hill  and  valley  ran; 

At  eve  he  calPd  the  maiden  his, 
"Before  the  holy  man." 


They  dwelt  beside  the  waters 

That  bathe  yon  fallen  pine, 
And  round  them  grew  their  sons  and  daughters, 

Like  wild  grapes  on  the  vine. 


128  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

And  years  and  years  flew  o'er  them, 

Like  birds  with  beauty  on  their  wings, 

And  theirs  were  happy  sleigh-ride  winters, 
And  long  and  lovely  springs, 


Such  joys  as  thrilPd  the  lips  that  kiss'd 

The  wave,  rock-cool'd,  from  Horeb's  fountains, 

And  sorrows,  fleeting  as  the  mist 

Of  morning,  spread  upon  the  mountains, 


Till,  in  a  good  old  age, 

Their  life-breath  pass'd  away; 
Their  name  is  on  the  churchyard  page — 

Their  story  in  my  lay. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  129 


And  let  them  rest  together, 

The  maid,  the  boat,  the  boy, 

Why  sing  of  matrimony  now, 
In  this  brief  hour  of  joy  ? 


Our  time  may  come,  and  let  it — 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  to  know 

That  our  bark  will  reach  West  Point  ere  long, 
If  the  breeze  keep  on  to  blow. 


We  have  Hudibras  and  Milton, 

Wines,  flutes,  and  a  bugle-horn, 

And  a  dozen  segars  are  lingering  yet 
Of  the  thousand  of  yestermorn. 


They  have  gone,  like  life's  first  pleasures, 

Arid  faded  in  smoke  away, 
And  the  few  that  are  left  are  like  bosom  friends 

In  the  evening  of  our  day. 


130  EPISTLES,    ETC. 

We  are  far  from  the  mount  of  battle,* 

Where  the  wreck  first  met  mine  eye, 
And  now  where  twm-fortsf  in  the  olden  time  rose, 
Thro'  the  Race,  like  a  swift  steed,  our  little  bark  goes, 
And  our  bugle's  notes  echo  through  Anthony's  Nose, 
So  wrecks  and  rhymes — good-by. 

*  Stony  Point.  t  Forts  Clinton  and  Montgomery. 


FINIS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
5 


Fanny    

The  Recorder 


EPISTLES,  ETC. 

-.  101 


ToW*lt*rB*wne,  Esq 95 


TO  *  *  *  **   

.  107 
A  Fragment 

Song,  by  Miss*** ,       .        .  Ill 

-Song,  for  the  Drama  of  the  Spy     .        .       « l] 

Address  at  the  Opening  of  a  new  Theatre 117 

The  Rhyme  of  the  Ancient  Coaster J21 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED   BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 


liouk  S 


2681 
Halleck,  F. 
Fanny, 


Call  Number: 

PS1782 

F3 

1839 


268437 


